


Celestial Oddity

by Aerivus_Faerivus



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate season 7, And So Does Everyone Else, Author Is A Plot Junkie, Dean Needs A Hug, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Major Plot, Post 7x08, Probable Future Mpreg (Dean), Romance, Slow Build, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-29
Updated: 2013-03-08
Packaged: 2017-11-27 09:53:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 57,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/660624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aerivus_Faerivus/pseuds/Aerivus_Faerivus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>He's starting to think that someone is screwing with him. Again.</em>
</p>
<p>[In which Dean is having messed up dreams, Sam is concerned, Cas may not be as dead as everyone thinks he is, and Gabriel is... well, Gabriel.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Waking The Dreamer

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, all! This is a WIP I originally started posting on FF.net last year. I've recently started poking at it again, so I thought I'd share it here. This is unbeta'd, so all mistakes are my own.
> 
> Also, please note that the characters have minds of their own. What they say/think/do doesn't necessarily reflect my own opinions. Or maybe it does. Who knows! ...But in all seriousness, this is how I feel they would act in the situations my mind throws at them. My recipe for Dean may have an extra teaspoon of angst in it though.
> 
> Normally I don't like spoilers, but since I know this can be a deal-breaker, I'd like to point out that this has a strong likelihood of Mpreg. Rated Explicit for later chapters.

He's dreaming again.

Well, that's just _great_.

It's grainy, static-y, like bad reception on a cheap motel television. The room is the same as it was last time, the same as it's been for the last damn _week_.

He's starting to think that someone is screwing with him. Again.

He can just make out flames licking at the walls in front of him, but he's not worried. The omnipresent fire never reaches him, never spreads. It always stays at the edges of the room like some freaky hoodoo baseboard. His eyes trail up, watching shadows dance across the markings etched above the flames. They're clearer this time, red scribbling that he can't even begin to understand, yet somehow so _familiar_.

He's tied down, that never changes either. Leather straps bite into his wrists and waist, suspending him vertically against some type of wall or table; the cold metal of it feels soothing on his heated skin. His aching arms are stretched out in a mock crucifix while his shoeless feet dangle below him. He can feel the sweat and grime and blood and God-only-knows-what-else covering his skin, can smell some type of fragrant substance clinging to his wounds and burning his flesh, always _burning_.

Aren't dreams not supposed to hurt?

Yeah, someone is probably screwing with him.

The room is always the same, but the faces, the screams, are always different. This time it's a petite woman, short brown hair, glasses skewed on her round face. Terrified green eyes that spark _something_ in him he can't quite name stare at him in horror and pain. Beyond that it's just flashes, blood and fear and death, always death. They never survive and God, he's _so sorry_ for putting her through this. He has no idea what he's done, but the guilt squirms in the pit of his stomach anyway. It's all his fault and all he can do is watch, watch as light pours from the woman's eyes and mouth and she writhes on the dirty floor. The light flares and he's the one screaming now, shouting how sorry he is, shouting the woman's name, though he has no idea how he knows it. He keeps screaming even though he knows it's too late, even though the woman can't hear him anymore, can't hear anything anymore.

" _Look what you've done,_ " he hears his own voice whisper viciously from somewhere over his shoulder and agony suddenly rips through his back. " _Monster._ " Furious green eyes come into focus then, a matching sneer inches from his face. He barely recognizes himself, his own handsome features twisted into something ugly and dark.

And hellish.

" _Look what you've done,_ " his double repeats mockingly. A red-streaked blade flashes in his hand like a white-hot flame. Slicing, carving, ripping, tearing. Burning, always _burning_.

_Make it stop. Makeitstop. Makeitstopmakeitstop-ohgodplease-makeitstophelpmehelpmeplease -_

" _Dean!_ "

* * *

Sam steals glances at his brother sleeping in the passenger seat, the fact that he's allowed behind the wheel a testament to how unwell the man is. Dean has been _off_ for the last week, but the stubborn jerk insists he's fine.

Sam knows better though.

For Dean to risk him having one of his... hellucinations (he'll never admit to his brother that he's actually started calling them that, if only in his head) while behind the wheel, there must be something really _wrong_. He's been racking his scrambled-egg brain for days, trying to think of a way to get the man to open up. Something is clearly eating at him, has been for a while now. It'd gotten better after the case in Lily Dale, after...

He feels his throat tighten and his hands clench the wheel involuntarily, but he forces himself to relax. Dean had been right about Amy, but that doesn't make him feel any better. She'd _killed_ people (dirty drug dealers, but still technically people) and he'd just let her go, let her go because his judgment had been clouded by memories. People change and the kitsune they'd hunted a few weeks ago was no longer the pretty, _innocent_ blonde girl he'd met at the library that day. But Dean had known, Dean had been there. Dean is always there to do what needs to be done.

 _To do what you can't. You're weak, Sammy,_ a voice in his head reminds him. It sounds an awful lot like Lucifer.

 _Shut up,_ he responds, automatically reaching for the scar on his palm to give it a squeeze and glancing at his brother again.

The toll of that self-imposed burden is visible in his brother now: the dark circles under his eyes, the pallor of his skin, the dullness of his once vibrant, playful eyes. It feels like his brother is just going through the motions most of the time, like he just doesn't care anymore. About anything. They should really talk about that too...

And maybe Bobby will take up knitting.

He snorts at the thought. His brother never wants to talk about anything: Dad, Hell, Lisa... Castiel.

God, Castiel.

He can't find it in himself to stay angry at the angel, even after all he's done. Maybe it's some screwed up angelic Stockholm Syndrome icing on his crazy cake, but he can't believe that Superman went over to the Dark Side without a really good reason. What's that saying? The road to Hell is paved with good intentions?

Hell, they're _all_ examples of that. Literally.

Castiel hadn't gone into much detail about the war in Heaven, but he must have been desperate to work with Crowley of all people...er, demons. Whatever.

More than anything he wants their friend back, alive, whole, and _sane_. Because then maybe his brother will stop looking like that heartbroken teenage girl from that douche-bag vampire movie every time he thinks no one is looking. Not that Sam has ever seen one of those movies, ever. As far as his brother knows.

Dean groans and shifts against the door in his sleep, probably trying to find a more comfortable position. The Charger's cracked vinyl seats aren't nearly as comfortable as the Impala's well-loved leather ones.

Sam turns again to look at his brother; the light filtering through the dusty window illuminates the bruised, almost translucent skin under the man's eyes. He's been Dean-watching for weeks now while the other man sleeps, a pass time he's dabbled in all his life but has never really called a hobby. He now regrets not asking, in another time and another place, tips from the master.

_Dammit, Cas._

He remembers waking up to the scene countless times. His brother would be tossing on the bed in the grips of who knew what kind of nightmare while a coated figure sat lightly at the edge of the bed. The angel would carefully raise his hand and smooth the crease from Dean's brow, watching intensely as his body relaxed gently back into the bed. Sam remembers the swell of jealousy-tinged relief he'd felt the first time he'd witnessed one of those moments. He'd been glad someone else was watching out for the man who never seemed to watch out for himself, but he'd also felt the bitter regret that he couldn't provide that himself. He still has to squash that little feeling sometimes, he understands that Castiel holds a place in his brother's heart that he can never touch.

Even if Dean is oblivious to it.

Dean groans again. Sam can see his eyes moving rapidly behind their purple-tinted lids. Wonderful, another dream, just what the man needs. Dreams these days never mean anything good for his older brother. Nothing seems to mean anything good for Dean anymore.

_Stop that._

"Stop," Dean mumbles, voicing Sam's own thoughts in the quiet of the car's cabin. Sam's brow furrows as he glances at his brother again. Dean is frowning now, his face scrunched up as if he's in pain. Sweat gleams on his skin, highlighting his already sickly features.

He looks like shit.

"Make it stop. Kate!" Dean groans out, thrashing slightly against the safety belt and the door. Sam's eyebrows fly up in surprise at the exclamation.

Who the _hell_ is _Kate_?

Chock another mystery up to the enigma that is his brother.

He slows the car, anxiety pawing at his chest. The elder Winchester thrashes more violently as the car comes to a halt and suddenly he's screaming, choking, sobbing worse than any nightmare Sam has witnessed in the past year.

"Dean!" he yells, finally reaching over and gripping the man by the shoulders, shaking him awake.

The effect is instantaneous. The other man gasps and pitches forward in his seat, emptying the meager contents of his stomach, what he'd managed to choke down under Sam's watchful eye at breakfast, onto the floorboard. It terrifies Sam to see his brother like this. Dean doesn't puke, not ever. Well, except for that one time with the sandwich, but that was magically induced.

Maybe it is this time too.

The thought takes Sam as he pats his still-retching brother on the back. Is that it? Is this some sort of curse? It would certainly explain a lot. He should call Bobby...

"Sam?" Dean gasps out from between his knees and the thought is forgotten, lost in the urgency of his brother's voice. His breath is coming out in rasps, but slowly evening out. He reaches up and weakly grips Sam's arm, slowly rising to look him in the eye. As blood-shot green eyes meet his own worried blue ones, he thinks that this is it, the moment he's been waiting for. The other man is finally going to crack. He's actually going to talk about what had just happened instead of ignoring the giant elephant splattered all over the floor mat.

"...We're gonna need to steal another car."

But then again, this is Dean Winchester he's talking about.

* * *

One truck stop and a stolen minivan later, they're back on the road. Dean has once again taken his place behind the wheel, ignoring his brother's incessant bitching. ("You're sick, Dean! You shouldn't be driving." "I'm not friggin' sick. I told you those eggs didn't taste right, Sammy. But noooo, I _had to eat breakfast_. Hope you're happy. Bitch." "...Whatever. Jerk.") He's hoping the lull of the white lines will ease the throbbing in his head.

The dream had been all kinds of mind-fucking fun. This one had been the worst so far, they keep getting more intense. They'd started out as streaks of color and sound, fire and screams. At first he'd thought they were just reverberations of his time in hell, that the screams were those of his nameless, faceless victims as he tortured and cut and burned...

But then they'd started having faces.

In Hell, he'd never looked at their faces.

This dream had been different. The screamers had always been generic women before; this time she'd had a name. It made no difference in the end though, she'd met the same fate. They always burn, too bright, too much- what? The knowledge sits just out of his reach, so close and yet frustratingly beyond his understanding. The emotions and thoughts always feel strange too, like they've already been felt and thought before, like an echo, like they aren't really his but _are_ at the same time. God damn, he's losing it.

The not-his-his guilt still lingers in the pit of his stomach like liquid lead and he feels his grip tighten on the wheel. He feels sick again, feels the bile rising in his throat. He pushes it down, hyper-aware of the eyes watching him from the passenger seat. It's funny how Sam is so intent on having a scoop of his crazy when he already has thirty-one flavors of his own.

"Dude, are you okay?"

Dean practically jumps at the sound of his brother's voice breaking the silence, jerking the steering wheel of their latest count of grand theft auto slightly before correcting his course.

"What?" he asks, glancing sideways and trying his damnedest to look like he has no idea what the other man is talking about. Damn, nosy, observant son of a bitch.

"You've been... quiet..." The word is obviously not the one Sam wants to use to describe his behavior and they both know it. "...since we left Becky's. It's just not normal and you're starting to ...creep me out." Sam looks at him, eyebrows high on his classic 'worry' face.

"Normal is overrated, Sammy. You should know that by now," Dean huffs, trying as always to joke his way out of answering anything chick-flick in nature. In truth the dialogue is a familiar comfort, he feels his grip lessening on the wheel, feels the cold pocket of bile sitting in his throat slowly dissolving.

"You know what I mean, Dean." The elder brother hazards another glance at the younger against his better judgment.

_Dammit._

One day Dean will ask Sam where the hell he'd learned that damn kicked puppy look, because it sure as hell hadn't been from him. Or their dad. He knew he shouldn't have let the kid watch the Disney channel.

Maybe it'd been Bobby...

_Nah._

"I'm fine, Sam," he says firmly, turning his eyes back to the road and totally not imagining what their surrogate father would look like with dog ears.

"Dean, if this is about-" his brother begins. Oh no, this is not happening. They are not having this conversation _again_.

"I said I'm _fine,_ " he repeats with more force.

"What I said-"

"I'm FUCKING FINE!" he all but screams, swerving on the road in emphasis. The outburst leaves him slightly out of breath, but the silence is well worth the effort. Hopefully Sam has given up-

"I'm not giving it up that easily."

Fuckin' mind reader. Are they sure Sam's demon mojo is completely gone anyway?

"...That's what she said." When at first you don't succeed, keep beating your head into the wall until one of them breaks.

"Dean..."

"What!" he snarls, getting seriously annoyed.

"I really am sorry."

And that fucking does it. Dean swerves off the road, earning a honk from the sedan that zooms passed them as they abruptly stop on the dusty bank. Did that soccer mom just flip him off? Ah, well, good for her. He takes a deep breath, bracing himself, and turns to face his brother.

"Look, Sam. It has nothing to do with you, okay? So lets just drop it." He looks down at his clenched hands, unable to look his brother in the eye.

"Dean..."

"This isn't about you, okay?" Dean shouts, turning and wrenching open the door to the car, he gets out and slams it shut. Taking a few steps away, he runs his hands through his hair and rubs the back of his neck. He turns as he hears the passenger door shut behind him, regarding Sam over the roof of the minivan.

He can just barely see his brother's annoying, stupid, worried face over the rusting metal. Sam meets his glare with a level stare, his forehead scrunching up like his eyebrows are trying to eat each other. One day his face will get stuck like that, Dean thinks with little of the intended humor. Rolling his eyes, he turns away from the offending look.

"It's..." He sighs, knowing that he's about to open a whole can of worms and shit. He's pretty sure his brother already knows what has really been eating at him, but he says it anyway. "It's about Cas, okay?" He still refuses to look back at the taller man, but takes the silence as an invitation to continue.

"Working that case with Garth... It just struck a little close to home." Finally turning back around, he looks his brother in the eye.

"You miss him." It's a statement that leaves no room for argument. Dean isn't even going to bother denying it anyway. He sighs and this time he knows the guilt he's feeling is his own.

"I know he cracked your melon. I know he lied to us. And then-" He swallows thickly. "And then I... we lost him. And those _things_ fucking _paraded around wearing him._ " The fuzzy black and white imagine of the horrific, _gleeful, insane_ grin plastered on the "god's" face in that campaign office will forever be burned into Dean's memories, his nightmares.

_The Castiel you knew is gone._

_He's gone. He's dead._

_We run the show now._

"Hell, I know he's the reason the snakes are on the plane." He kicks forcefully at a particularly large piece of gravel, vainly hoping it will carry the memories away with it as it arcs through a cloud of stirred up dust and skips to a halt a dozen feet away, still very much within sight. He hunches his shoulders, watching the dust dissipate.

"But you weren't there, Sammy. You didn't see the look on his face. I... I gave up on him too easy. I should have tried _harder_ , should have paid attention. The warning signs were there, Sam. And I didn't see them." _I didn't want to see them._

He's momentarily afraid that Sam will be angry with him, that Sam will be disgusted with him because he misses the person that punched his brother's ticket for the crazy train to Comatown.

"Honestly man, I was excepting this sooner," Sam says quietly, still on the other side of the hunk of junk. Dean lets out a rush of breath he hadn't realized he's been holding. His brother doesn't sound angry at all. Some of the tension eases out of him.

"Yeah, well, you know how I love to exceed expectations." He snorts. If there is one thing he's good at, it's breaking shit.

"I miss him too, you know," Sam responds, leaning on the roof of the car. "Profound bond or no," he adds, lip quirking up in memory. Dean snorts again and kicks another rock.

"Lotta good that did us," he mutters under his breath, though he's sure Sam can hear him. Turning back to the car, he reaches for the handle.

"Dean..." He pauses at his brother's voice.

"Yeah?" Looking up, he can see his brother watching him intently, something clearly on the tip of his tongue. Dean has had the feeling several times since they'd.. lost Cas... that the younger Winchester has wanted to ask him something. What it is, he really doesn't have a clue.

Or maybe he does.

_Shut up._

"Nevermind," Sam backs down, opening his door and climbing back in the crapster. (God, he misses his baby.) Dean shrugs and follows suit.

"You know," Sam begins again, a small smile pulls at his face. "You aren't really a part of the family unless you've sold your soul or unintentionally started an apocalypse at least once."

Dean can't help but smile back. Truer words...

Silence spans for several minutes once they're back on the road. Dean hasn't even bothered with music.

"So this case is really weird," Sam finally speaks. Dean grunts in acknowledgment.

"I'm not sure what to make of it-" And his little brother would have continued, but at that moment the radio pops on. That's weird, neither of them touched it. Dean shrugs it off as faulty wiring and grins when he recognizes the song.

"Dude, Asia."

He glances over at his brother when he doesn't respond. His grin falters as he catches sight of the look on Sam's now-pale face.

He's staring at the radio like he's just seen a ghost. Which, considering how many salt n' burns they've done over the years, shouldn't even be that big of a deal. There's a nagging memory at the back of Dean's mind, something familiar about this situation, but he can't place it.

Sam blinks and quickly leans forward to snap the radio off.

Dean is about to ask what has Sam's panties in a bunch when the car is filled with the heartbreakingly familiar flutter of wings and the soft thump of a body settling into the back seat.

He can't breath.

It can't be.

His throat feels tight and dry and he still can't breath and _oh God,_ it can't be.

"Still can't take a joke, Sammy?" And it isn't. Dean feels his hope shatter at the sound of the soft, almost playful voice.

And just like that the spell is broken.

Simultaneously, the boys whip their heads around, staring in shock at the brunette sitting in the backseat. Completely forgotten, the van swerves again and plows right into the drainage ditch that parallels the road. Reeds and cattails drum against the windshield in a broken rhythm and water laps up onto the grill as the vehicle settles.

When he's recovered from the impact, before he even registers it, Dean is clawing his way over the seat and punching the dick right in the face.

"Are you FUCKING _KIDDING ME?_ You FUCKING COWARD! Have you been hiding this WHOLE TIME? You sonuvaBITCH!" He raises his fist to land another blow, but suddenly finds himself tied and gagged and back in the driver's seat. He jerks violently toward the backseat, death-glaring and flaring his nostrils at the bastard as he struggles to free himself.

"Now, now, Dean-o. Behave yourself while I explain." The bastard wags his finger at him and he has the sudden, childish urge to bite it. He probably would too, if it weren't for the duct tape. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Sam finally recover from the shock, eyebrows knitting together in confusion and surprise.

" _Gabriel?_ "


	2. Gabriel Explains It All

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _...And the mild look of surprise on the archangel's face is worth probably never getting that shoe back._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know, it's funny... Gabriel wasn't even supposed to be in this story.

"The one and only." The angel grins, spreading his arms wide in a cheerful greeting like he totally _didn't_ just get punched in the face. In his peripheral vision, Sam sees his brother's body arch as he strains against his bonds.

"Okay," Sam thinks aloud, blinking a few times. Then, being the most level-headed and mature of the two brothers, he promptly reaches down, slides off his shoe, and throws it at the jerk angel. It hits the bastard square in the chest with a pathetic _thud_ , but it feels good anyway and the mild look of surprise on the guy's face is worth probably never getting that shoe back.

In the driver's seat his brother has stilled, his eyebrows shooting toward his hairline. The way the corners of Dean's eyes crinkle in amusement is worth it too.

Gabriel picks the shoe up from where it's fallen on his lap, examining it for a moment before looking back up at Sam and raising an eyebrow.

"You can have this back after class, young man." And with a wave of his hand Sam's sneaker is gone. He wonders for a moment where Gabriel has sent it, then decides that maybe he doesn't even _want_ it back.

"Now, if we're done with the pleasantries, I'm actually here on business." The angel crosses his arms over his chest and leans back into the seat.

"Wait. Wait, wait, _wait_. How do we know that you're really Gabriel?" Sam's pretty sure it is, they're pretty screwed if it's not. But with all the xeroxing and crap going on, they have to be careful.

"What? My charming personality not enough proof for you?" The former trickster smirks and holds up his hand, revealing Ruby's knife. Dean starts struggling furiously in his seat and Sam immediately reaches over to check the holster where his brother keeps the blade.

It's empty.

With a small frown, Gabriel draws the blade across his forearm; blood wells up in the shallow wound, but nothing else happens. With another wave of his hand, the knife is back in its place at Dean's belt.

"There, good enough for you-" He sputters to a stop, face full of holy water from the flask Sam has whipped out of his pocket.

"What the hell?" Gabriel demands indignantly as he wipes the water from his eyes.

"Could've been an illusion," Sam points out logically.

"Paranoid much?" The angel grumbles, producing a handkerchief out of nowhere and busying himself with drying off.

"Okay, you..." He glares at Sam. Crap, maybe he's gone too far. "No more throwing." And then, with a snap of his fingers, Sam is sitting there in his underwear. Yeah, okay, he's convinced it's Gabriel now. "And you," Gabriel adds, looking at his brother. Sam realizes now that Dean is shaking, his breath coming out through his nose in stuttered bursts of mirth.

Yeah, it'd definitely been worth it.

"Are you gonna behave now?" Dean glares at the guy but nods. With another snap of the angel's fingers, the tape and bindings are removed.

"He could still be a shifter," Dean points out.

"Those potato-heads can't _fly_ ," Gabriel shoots back, clearly exasperated.

"Witch?" Dean tries again.

"Please, do I _smell_ like a witch?" the former trickster grumbles.

"Dude has a point," the elder Winchester admits.

"And before you ask, Dad's aquarium rejects can't zap around either," the angel adds.

"Okay, so, you're you then," Sam states.

"Yeah."

"What the fuck, man?" Leave it to Dean to broach a subject gracefully. "You just fake your own death and disappear? _Again_?" Dean's voice rises as he continues, "You just left us, left your _brother_ -" And the tape is back. Dean angrily starts tugging at the edges, but can't seem to get it off.

"Inside voices, Dean-o. We've already talked about this." The angel pulls out a candy bar and peels back the wrapper with practiced ease. "I did die," he says calmly, taking a bite of the chocolate.

"What? Then... how?" Sam feels the questions buzzing around in his head. The answer suddenly strikes him, hard. " _God_? Did God bring you back?" Dean has apparently given up on getting the tape off and sits listening.

"Ding, ding, ding! Give the boy a prize." Gabriel jabs the chocolate at him before taking another bite. "No, on second thought, don't. You'll probably just throw it at me," he reasons. "I guess dear old Dad didn't like the idea of no one being in charge upstairs. I suddenly found myself standing in the middle of the ball room at the Elysian Fields hotel about a month ago. Made that couple's wedding reception _way_ more interesting." He has a wistful smile on his face as he chews.

"So God brought _you_ back? To be _in charge_?" They're all screwed.

"Well, with Scary and Posh down in the cage, and Sporty busy being a smudge on a wall, Ginger had to come out of retirement to save the show." There is so very much wrong with that sentence. Sam is ashamed he even knows what the hell the guy is talking about.

"So, you're saying there were no more archangels left."

"Bingo. And as far as why Pops picked me... I'd like to say it's because I'm just that awesome, but it's probably more because I'm the least likely to go all apocolypse-y and burn this mother to the ground." He shoves the empty candy wrapper in his pocket and wipes his hands on his jeans. "And that's about it. I woulda sent you a fruit basket or something, but I've been kinda up to my halo in it. Raphael and lil' bro left a big, steaming pile of chaos up there," he tuts, but then his expression softens.

"Hey." Gabriel pauses looking over at Dean but clearly directing his speech at Sam, the only one who can answer.

"Yeah?" he responds warily, watching the odd look the angel's giving his brother. Dean raises an eyebrow questioningly.

"Did he really molotov Mikey with _holy fire_?" The archangel leans forward, his voice very serious. Dean's expression falters and he looks away. Sam can't help but smile a little at the foggy memory.

"Yeah," he repeats. Sam watches as Gabriel's hands tighten on his knees and he leans back with a breathy chuckle, shaking his head.

"That kid," he says softly. There's affection there and Sam realizes that Gabriel must have liked Castiel a lot more than he'd let on.

"How'd you know about that?" He's curious how often Heaven's been checking in on them.

"I paid a visit to your friend Chuck. He wasn't home, saw me coming apparently. Left out some interesting reading material for me though." The angel grins. "And before you ask: writing, yes, publishing, no. He left a note saying I should tell you that for some reason." He raises an eyebrow looking between the two questioningly. Sam just rolls his eyes and shakes his head.

"Anyway." Gabriel clears his throat, leaning back and crossing his arms over his chest again. "Like I said, I'm actually here on business."

"We're already on a job." Dean's unusually muted voice makes Sam jerk in surprise. He hadn't even noticed when the tape had disappeared. Dean still isn't looking at the angel, but Gabriel's eyes are boring into his brother's back.

"I know, mutton-head. That's what I'm talking about."

Sam frowns at that. "Missing women? Warwick, Rhode Island?" he asks.

"That'd be the one," the angel agrees.

"Why's the halo brigade interested in a few missing chicks?" Dean finally turns around to join the conversation.

"Because they're not random abductions."

"So the victims have something in common then? Something you guys are worried about?" Sam frowns. The women had started out disappearing from the local area about two weeks ago, but there were reports of possible related kidnappings that encompassed several states. The only real solid connection is the way the women disappeared; they vanished from their beds in the middle of the night. No sign of forced entry, no signs of struggle. It's as if they'd just gotten up and walked out. They're only checking it out because of the sheer number of abductions in such a small amount of time.

"The first few, no, not so much. Just a bunch of virgins." Gabriel stretches, crossing his legs. "The last two, however..." Sam absorbs that tidbit of information. Virgins. Again. "There are only so many viable vessels in the world, we can't really afford to start losing them or their bloodlines."

"We aren't dealing with friggin' dragons again, are we?" His brother had apparently caught that too. He watches in concern as Dean suddenly pales in some sort of realization, his hand reaching up to rub the side of his neck.

"That Eve bitch is dead, right?" Dean asks in borderline panic. Sam sucks in a breath, following his brother's train of thought.

_Oh God._

"Yeah, she's definitely out of the game," the angel confirms. Sam hears his brother literally _hiss_ in relief.

"Crowley dissected her after you guys took her out, hoping to find a way in to Purgatory. She's probably in little jars in his pantry." That is way more than Sam wants to know.

"And there goes any chance I had of eating anything pickled ever again," Dean declares, looking a little green.

"Whole new meaning to Hell's Kitchen," Gabriel quips, clearly enjoying their discomfort.

"Anyway," Sam says a little louder than necessary to steer the conversation back on track. "So you guys are worried because the last two women to go missing are vessels? Couldn't that just be coincidence? How do you know they're connected?" The sad truth is women go missing all the time, and not always for supernatural reasons.

"Well the sulfur my people found at both of their houses after they _vanished off of angel radar_ was a hint," the angel explains sarcastically. "It's not _that_ easy to pull one over on the guys upstairs, a regular human certainly isn't gonna be able to swing it."

"Demons? Figures. The Heat Miser's been steering clear of us for months. Said it's because he's hoping we hit the high-score in Gank-a-Snake, but it makes sense that he's got something going on the side. He's probably hoping we're too busy trying not to get eaten to notice a few angel condoms missing from the drawer," Dean speculates, he doesn't really look surprised by the idea. Sam isn't really shocked either.

"But why would Crowley want vessels? Sacrifices? Experiments?" Sam asks thoughtfully.

"Dunno. Right now I'm more worried about _how_ he found them in the first place," Gabriel says, sounding troubled.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, it's not like we have a damn vessel phone book lying around or something. That's guarded information. Demons getting a hold of the cast list of the angelic Muppet Show? That's catastrophic," Gabriel explains. And he's right, that does sound like a serious problem. Demons knowing where to find empty, unsuspecting vessels? There's no way that wouldn't end bloody.

"We followed their tracks, but lost 'em at Warwick. That's when we discovered the other cases. Checked 'em out, demonic presences up the wazoo at those women's houses too." Gabriel scratches his head. "So I figured we could compare notes on this one, since you two Hardy Boys sniffed it out too."

"You mean you're hoping we'll take care of your problem for you." Dean snorts.

"Pretty much."

"At least he's being honest," Sam points out. The truth is a rare luxury, especially when dealing with this particular angel.

There's a silence; when Sam looks over at his brother, it's clear that he's weighing their options.

"And we can count on you to be waiting in the wings if this all goes to Hell? Like, literally?" the elder Winchester asks carefully.

"That was the general idea, yeah."

"Sure then, why not. Not like we're gonna turn around now just because the A-team is already on the case," Dean agrees to the partnership after receiving a nod from Sam.

"Great." Gabriel claps his hands and rubs them together, clearly satisfied.

"One thing though," Dean speaks up again as the angel is about to leave.

"What's that?" the former trickster asks, raising an eyebrow. Dean glances at Sam before looking back to the van's only other occupant. He hesitates for a second, peaking not only Gabriel's curiosity, but Sam's as well.

"I wanna know what we're getting ourselves in to. We kinda forgot to renew our subscription to the Hell Street Journal." The angel's other eyebrow rises, but he remains silent.

"The war in Heaven, Cas was kinda tight lipped about it," he begins carefully. Sam's pretty sure he knows now what Dean is about to ask, and he twists around a bit more to get a better look at the angel in the back seat. "I know it was him versus Raphael, but why?"

Gabriel stares at him for a moment, looking mildly surprised for the second time today. "He didn't tell you?" he asks, blinking. "Of course, he didn't tell you," the angel mutters, reaching up to rub his forehead and sighing.

"No. But I never exactly asked either," Dean admits, looking away again. _I never really paid attention._ Sam hears in his tone.

"When Castiel went back to Heaven, after you all sent Lucy back to his room, it was chaos. Kinda like it was when I got back. Michael was gone, the apocalypse was a no-show. Nobody up there was really sure what to do. They turned to Castiel, the brother God had brought back to life not once, but _twice_ , for the answers. And do you know what lil' bro told them?" Gabriel leans forward, resting his arms on his knees and lacing his fingers together.

"He told them they should think for themselves, that they had _free will_ and should use it." There's a light in his eyes that has nothing to do with being an angel. Sam recognizes it.

Pride.

Gabriel is _proud_.

Of Castiel.

Gabriel laughs then, but it sounds empty. "And they didn't- couldn't understand."

And Sam realizes why.

Angels aren't created with free will. They are soldiers. They are obedient. They can, however, _discover_ free will, _develop_ it. The epiphany itself isn't what really matters though, it's how it's used. What choices are made.

Lucifer became a hateful monster. Anna used her free will to fall from grace. Gabriel decided to run away from home and his problems.

Castiel chose to help save the world.

"...We don't all have Dean Winchesters to beat us over the head with the idea." The angel tilts his head sideways, sliding his eyes to keep his sight on Dean. "They all just wanted to follow him around like sheep. And then Raphael came, the last of the big dicks on campus, spouting orders and authority. The ones that didn't want to follow Castiel flocked to him. Because he had a _plan_ , he had a _purpose_ for them."

"And what was that?" Dean's voice is a soft rumble now, his hands are clenched and Sam's pretty sure he can _see_ the guilt eating at his brother.

"To pop the Cage."

Both brothers snap to attention, eyes riveted on Gabriel's mournful face. With horrible, agonizing clarity, something in Sam's head slides into place. Oh God. It's so obvious. Why hadn't they considered that Raphael would want to finish what his brothers had started.

Dean turns around and buries his head in his hands.

"Are you trying to tell me that this whole time, this whole _fucking_ time..." His voice is muffled but Sam can hear the layers of emotion there: guilt, anger, regret, grief. "He was up there, _alone_? Trying to stop the damn apocalypse? _Again_?" His hands slide up into his hair and fist there. "Sonuvabitch."

"When he stood up to Raphael, he got the shit beaten out of him. Lil' bro was pretty high on the food chain; when he returned to Heaven he was a dominion, but that's still two notches below archangel. He didn't have a snowball's chance to take Raphael by himself. He needed help."

"He should've asked." Dean's jaw clenches.

"He almost did."

"So why didn't he?"

"He went to see you, Dean. That's how that little creep _Crowley_ -" Gabriel spits the name out like a curse. "-got to him. He showed up while Castiel was trying to talk himself out of dragging you back in. Offered him a deal he couldn't refuse. Lured him in with a loan, enough souls to hold his own against Raphael while they found a way to tap Purgatory and split the goods. A fighting chance to stop the apocalypse, to save the world. Again. And all the while keeping you out of it and safe."

Jesus Christ, how could they have been so naïve? Hadn't Ruby done the exact same thing to Sam? Offered him a way to 'stop' the apocalypse by less than honorable means? Seduced him into lying to his _family_? Dean had asked Sam to stop too; he hadn't listened either. He'd done what he thought he'd had to. To save people.

That doesn't mean that what Castiel had done was right. He'd still made the wrong choice. But Sam understands now what the angel must have been feeling in those final days, what lead him to make those bad decisions.

_Wait, did you bring me back soulless_ on purpose _?_

_How could you think that?_

"He really didn't know he'd left my soul in the cage, did he?" Sam asks slowly. This is a lot to take in and he's starting to feel almost as horrible as Dean looks.

"No, he didn't. He didn't realize anything was wrong until Dean did, and by then the damage had been done. He didn't yank you out to do his dirty work like Crowley did with your grandpa. He went back to Hell, to the _Cage_ , just to save you. It was stupid and reckless and impossible, but he tried to anyway. Now..." Gabriel pauses, his lip curling upward. "I wonder where he could have learned _that_."

Sam starts to really regret not giving Castiel that hug.

"Dammit," Dean grunts, suddenly lashing out at the steering wheel with a fist. "What a _prick_." He almost shouts the last word. He glares at the reeds and grass that Sam has just now noticed are obscuring the bottom half of the cracked windshield.

"What?" Sam asks, knitting his eyebrows together in confusion. His brother responds by angrily waving his hands at the dashboard, then jabs a finger over his shoulder.

That's when Sam notices the backseat is empty.

"He fucking _ditched_ us!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI: Cas is totally Baby Spice.
> 
> At this point in writing this story, I was under the impression that Cas never mentions Raphael's motives for the civil war. Upon a later re-watch, I found out I was misinformed. (He mentions it in _The Third Man_.) Soooo, we're just going to pretend that he didn't. Sorry about that.
> 
> Thank you all for reading! :)


	3. Coffee, Nectar of the Gods

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _If Sam didn't have his hand in the muck, that might have been funny. But now he's pretty sure his brother has just put him off oatmeal for life._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This gets kind of graphic, so heads up.

Luckily Gabriel had just zapped Sam's clothes into the trunk. The van is another story though; after fifteen minutes it's pretty obvious that they can't get it out of the ditch by themselves and calling a tow truck for a stolen car is out of the question.

So they start walking.

The tiny two-lane highway stretches out before and behind them, flat and straight and utterly uninteresting. Generic farmland fields spread on either side of it as far as the eye can see, seas of green grass and crops that roll and swell in the light Indiana autumn breeze. The vast, monotone horizon is dotted with the occasional grove of trees or farmhouse and what just _might_ be a cluster of buildings that _could_ be a town.

Basically, there's nothing distracting to look at. At all. Awesome.

Dean wishes he had something else to focus on, it's too easy to let his body go into auto-pilot while just walking. He doesn't really want his mind to wander after the conversation they'd just had.

But it does anyway.

What Cas had done still isn't justified. He'd still chosen to make a demonic deal. With Crowley. That's never been the right choice. It's never _going_ to be right. But Dean understands _why_ a hell of a lot better now. Maybe if he'd been less of an _unyielding asshole_ and _listened_ , Cas would have too. Would still be...

_Stop._

Cas had known what he was doing was wrong. He'd done it anyway. But if they're to believe Gabriel's word, which is apparently Chuck's word, then he'd really done it to keep them safe.

What a selfish bastard.

Probably learned _that_ from Dean too.

"Five more miles to town," Sam groans from his left and points at the green and white sign in the distance. Dean nods distractedly and hoists his duffle bag higher on his shoulder. It's heavy as fuck and he's beginning to ponder just tossing the gas can full of rock salt he's got in his right hand.

He's going to punch Gabriel in the nuts next time.

They haven't seen any cars on the road since that- that _glorified cockatoo_ \- crashed their wheels, but he's still hoping someone will take pity and pick them up when they pass. Though the rifle Sam's got slung over his shoulder is probably not going to help them there.

"Hopefully we can find something better than a damn mom-mobile this time."

"Beggars can't be choosers," Sam says sagely. Dean rolls his eyes.

"That explains your face then."

"...Dude, that doesn't even make _sense_." But Sam cracks a smile anyway.

Dean feels the corner of his mouth twitch in response. "Shut up. Does too."

Sam sighs in exasperation. "You're such a child."

_You're a friggin' child, you know that?_

All the humor rushes out of Dean like he's been punched. "Whatever," he says gruffly and squares his shoulders.

Four and a half miles to go.

* * *

They swipe an old yellow Camero in the hodunk town they finally stumble in to. It's rusty and a little under-loved mechanic-wise, but it's still pretty friggin' sweet. Nowhere near his baby, mind you. But _light years_ better than that damn minivan.

It's dark when they finally get on the road again but Dean isn't digging the Deliverance vibe he's getting from, well, _everything_. And he's totally _not_ just making excuses not to close his eyes again. That's what he tells Sam anyway. So they decide to pull an all-nighter through Ohio and Pennsylvania and make a straight shot for Rhode Island.

By the time they pull into the motel in Warwick, Dean is beyond wiped. Sam disappears into the manger's office to check in before Dean even gets a stiff leg out of the car. Grateful, he stands up and stretches, grimacing at the chain reaction of pops and cracks it sends through his spine and shoulders.

It's late afternoon now and sun is just beginning to set. The white-blue hue of the sky is slowly melting into the reds and oranges of dusk as seagulls glide overhead, scouting their evening meals. The occasional bird cry is the only reminder that they are close to the ocean, they're too far inland for the evening air to carry the crisp saltiness of the sea.

The motel parking lot is deathly quiet, only a handful of cars are parked there and there's not another soul in sight. Dean takes in the peeling beige paint and ill-repaired roof and briefly wonders when the place last saw a maintenance man. He then decides that he doesn't really care as long as they have hot water.

Sam's return is announced by the triumphant jingling of keys as he points to the door of the fourth room from the right.

"All set," the younger Winchester says as he grabs his bag from the trunk and heads toward the room, his footfalls echo almost painfully loud over the cracked and crumbling asphalt.

"Good," the elder answers, rubbing his eyes and grabbing his own bag before following at a more muted pace. "Grub?" he asks as a sluggish afterthought.

"Asked. There's a decent diner five minutes down the road. Want me to grab us something?" There's another jingle of keys as Sam pops the door open and they both stagger into the room.

"Awesome," Dean grunts as he flops down on the nearest bed without really looking around the room. Not like he hasn't seen a few hundred like it anyway.

"Be back in a few," Sam calls in parting. The soft click of the door closing barely reaches Dean's ears.

When Sam gets back twenty minutes later, Dean's out cold.

* * *

Police Chief Josh Vickers has a headache.

It probably has something to do with spending all morning supervising idiots dredge the reservoir up by Fiskeville. How some of those people get hired is beyond him.

He needs coffee.

Hell, he needs a drink.

He doesn't get either though because just as he sits down his secretary, Susan, knocks on his door and pokes her perky blonde head in.

"Sir, there's someone here to see you," she says in her high, sweet voice. "FBI, two of them." Her smile is bewitching, red lipstick contrasting perfect white teeth like a spell. "Shall I send them in?"

He can't help but return her infectious smile, even if he doesn't feel happy about the news. Dealing with the Feds right now doesn't exactly sound like a picnic, but he doesn't really have a choice.

"Sure." He rakes his fingers through his thinning hair, hoping it looks less frazzled than he feels and leans back in his chair.

Swiftly after Susan's head disappears from the cracked door, it's pushed wide open and the two agents shuffle across the stained, cracked linoleum to the ugly green chairs on the opposite side of his desk. Not for the first time he wishes they had the money for renovations; he can't remember the last time this place has even had a lousy fresh coat of paint.

As the young men take their seats, he takes the opportunity to size them up.

The tall one (well, they're both tall, but this guy is a _giant_ ) has brown hair that's too long to possibly be within the dress code. Damn lax, hippie Feds. He looks friendly enough though. Doesn't have that holier-than-thou vibe that most of the black suits that come through here do.

The shorter guy looks, well, like maybe he should have called in sick today. His cropped brown hair (that's more like it) looks immaculate, but he's pale and looks kinda like _he_ was the one that got the phone call at three A.M. Maybe he did and that's how they got here so fast.

"Thank you for seeing us, Chief Vickers. It looks like you've been busy today," the tall one says cordially. The short one rolls his eyes.

"Yeah, we've been friggin' waiting for hours," he complains, just loud enough to be heard. The tall guy elbows him in the ribs and Shortie shoots him a nasty look back, but sits up a little straighter. Vickers wonders just how long they've been working together to make them act more like brothers than co-workers.

"Sorry to have kept you waiting, gentlemen. I wasn't expecting you folks to get here so quick." He directs it at the tall guy. "Who are you, exactly?" he asks, looking between them expectantly.

"I'm Agent Smith and this-" Smith glares at the other man. "is my partner, Agent Johnson." Johnson grunts out a hello and folds his arms over his chest, staring at something on the floor.

Smith sighs. "Sorry about him. He gets cranky when he doesn't get his coffee." Shortie's leg twitches like he wants to kick the other man and his lips press together in agitation, but he doesn't respond. They've definitely been working together for a while. Either that or they just hate each other, that could be it too.

"I know the feeling," Vickers says with a chuckle. God, he could really use some. "Susan!" He raises his voice to penetrate the thin wall of the office. Like clockwork, she pops her head in again after a couple seconds.

"Yes, Sir?" She still has a smile plastered on her face.

"Coffee for me and my guests, please."

"Yes, Sir." She disappears again and returns in record time with three paper cups on a white plastic tray. She's wearing that yellow dress he loves so much, he notices offhand.

"Anything else I can get you boys?" she asks, dealing out the refreshments like a professional stewardess. He can smell her perfume as she leans forward to place one of the cups on his desk. She's wearing more than usual, but she still smells wonderful.

"No, thank you." He smiles at her again dismissively. She retreats to her desk outside his office. He notices he's not the only one that spends a little too much time watching her leave. At least they can't judge him for looking if they're too busying doing it themselves.

"Thanks." Johnson looks a little more with it after he takes a sip. Vickers takes a swig himself and almost spits it out when bitter liquid scalds his mouth. Discretely setting the cup aside to cool, he focuses his attention back on the conversation.

"Now, what can I do for you fellas?"

"We were hoping you could share any information you have about the recent abductions. We've been sent to look into them," the tall one says amicably.

"Well, you boys have great timing. We just got a lead on that." That would explain how they got here so fast. They'd already been on their way. What sheer dumb luck.

"Oh really?" Shortie asks, leaning forward in his chair. His posture completely changes, it's like watching a wild animal startle awake. His green eyes sharpen fiercely and and an aura of intense _focus_ pours off of him. If Vickers were standing, he'd probably take an alarmed step back. He settles for subtly pushing himself into the back of his chair.

Where did they find this guy?

"Yeah. That's why it's so busy 'round here. Got a call in the middle of the night. Some fishermen found a body up in the Curran Upper Reservoir. Young woman, couldn't have been in the water long. Coroner's trying to ID her as we speak." The two exchange meaningful looks, the kind Vickers recognizes from his thirty-odd years on the force as silent conversation between seasoned partners. He frowns, once again he's curious how long they've been together. These boys look too young to share that kind of understanding but he tries not to dwell on it.

"Just the one? Aren't there like five women missing around here?" Johnson asks carefully. His eyes bore into Vickers' own, the police chief tries not to fidget.

"Five woman, two teenage boys, and one fifty-three-year-old geneticists." He sighs.

"Right. Any partridges or pear trees?" Johnson asks, raising an eyebrow. Vickers wonders what kind of shit this guy has seen to _joke_ about missing people with such a serious look on his face. Smith's lip twitches suspiciously and he huffs out a breath that might be a laugh.

Who the hell are these people?

"The teenagers look like runaways." Vickers decides to just ignore the question."And we've given up on the other guy. Disappeared a month ago camping with his family. Poor bastard probably got eaten by a cougar or drown." He realizes he's gotten off topic and clears his throat.

"But that isn't why you're here. She's the first one we've found," he confirms. "We're searching the lake still. Hoping it may be the dump site." He screws up his face in a grimace at his own words. He'd been still holding onto hope that the girls might be alive somewhere, despite the odds. He doesn't really have any now. "I can give my people a call, let 'em know that you're coming."

"Actually..."

His coffee is cold by the time he finally gets to drink it.

* * *

Most coroner's offices are pretty deserted. There's usually a doctor and maybe an assistant, but that's about it. No one really wants to hang around places where they dissect dead bodies if they don't have to. No one normal, anyway. The West Warwick Coroner's Office, located in the basement of the police department, is no exception.

The coroner isn't exactly pleased to see them.

"This way, gentlemen," he says tersely.

The doctor's in his late fifties with wavy salt and pepper hair and thick-rimmed glasses. His short and stocky frame is wrapped in a plastic blue disposable apron that's smeared red and black like a five-year-old has been using it to finger paint.

He also smells suspiciously like bourbon.

"I assume you're here about the body," he says in a clipped voice. He's got a tense, distressed air about him; his shoulders are ridged as he leads them through his office and into the small, sterile morgue behind it. The room is pretty average; white walls, steel table, one wall lined in those large metal drawers meant for body storage that Sam realizes he's never learned the official name for. Nothing too interesting.

Except for the body lying mid-autopsy on the table, of course.

"I haven't finished my report yet," the doctor throws over his shoulder. "I've got an ID and an approximate ToD, but the CoD... I don't know what to put down." He sounds anxious, that kind of confused concern that bleeds into people's voices when they're faced with something they can't explain and begin to question their own sanity.

Sam shares a knowing look with his brother. "It's alright," Sam placates. "We'd just like to see it for ourselves."

The coroner, Dr. Roberts he'd introduced himself as, leads them to the single slab in the center of the small room. The body of a young woman, no more than thirty, is laid open mid-examination. She's got short brown hair that's wild and tangled and still looks slightly damp with lake water. She's pale, but the skin of her face appears virtually unblemished by injury. An unnatural redness rimming her closed eyes and dark, cracked lips is the only thing Sam can find wrong with her at first glance.

"You said you got an ID?" Dean asks right away.

"Meet Mrs. Kathrine Beckett. She's not even one of our local missing girls. Twenty-seven-year-old Sunday School teacher from Kansas. Went missing five days ago. _In Kansas_. Her husband says she just disappeared in the middle of the night. Died around forty-eight to sixty hours ago, judging by the dissipation of rigor mortis and decomposition."

"This breaks the pattern," Sam murmurs, leaning over to examine the body.

"Yeah," Dean agrees, gazing at her face with a look of troubled concentration, as if he's trying to puzzle everything out then and there. "If she was hitched, she's definitely not rocking a promise ring."

"Think she's a vessel, then?" The words leave Sam's mouth without thinking and he wants to kick himself. Dean's head snaps up and the look he gives Sam clearly says he wants to too.

"A vessel? A vessel for _what_?" The doctor looks at him like he's just said something particularly crazy. Which, for all intensive purposes, he has.

"Vassal. He means vassal," Dean quickly covers, clapping Sam hard on the shoulder. "Hooked on phonics here got kicked in the head last week by an escaped murder suspect. Doctor says he's okay, but the poor guy's having trouble with his vowels." Dean squints one of his eyes and glares at him. Sam realizes that this is probably payback for the coffee comment earlier. The doctor narrows his eyes suspiciously.

"What are you talking about?" Dr. Roberts asks after a pause, pulling a silver flask out of his lab coat and taking a swig right in front of them. A familiar warm, sweet smell that Sam associates with long nights of research and awkward silences drifts through the too-dry air. Definitely bourbon.

"For my nerves," the coroner mumbles when he notices their surprised expressions.

"We don't know the other girls' sexual histories, or that there's any connection there. This is the only body and she has no evidence of sexual trauma. But you're right, she's not a virgin." He narrows his eyes at them again.

"We, uh, have been working on another case like this from about a year ago. String of kidnappings up in Oregon, suspected human trafficking. We think they may be related. All the previous victims were young women... of virtue," Sam covers with a half truth. He's known since he was four that that's the best way to lie.

"I see." The doctor nods, but still looks disturbed. "Were...was there anything _odd_ about the case?"

_You mean like the fact that they were kidnapped by dragons?_ Sam has to clamp down on the urge to laugh. Dean is silent at his side; he's engrossed in examining the woman's face again and he's apparently content to let Sam do the talking on this. Not that he minds, Dean's still not looking too great.

Sam had been relieved when he'd found his brother conked out when he'd gotten back from the diner last night. He hadn't been pleased when the elder Winchester had insisted that they not stop for more than bathroom breaks, tanking up, and food until they got here. The man needs more sleep, dammit. Dean had gotten a few hours of rest before the nightmares hit. At least they were the normal nightmares last night and not a repeat of whatever the hell had happened in the car the day before yesterday.

With a rush of embarrassment, Sam suddenly remembers that he's being spoken to. "What do you mean?" he asks carefully.

"See for yourself," the doctor answers him with hesitation, producing a pair of gloves from somewhere inside his coat and handing them over to Sam. With a _you owe me_ glare at the side of Dean's head, he accepts the purple gloves and snaps them on. They're uncomfortably tight, but he can still flex his fingers so they're tolerable.

Gingerly Sam pushes his hand into the woman's splayed abdominal cavity, carefully searching for whatever is making this guy feel the need to drink on the job.

He discovers it right away.

"Oh. Oh, wow," he stutters and grimaces, disgusted with the way the black sludge that fills her abdomen oozes around his fingers. It squishes and slurps at his glove like loose, wet sand and smells _horrible_. Kind of like sour, burnt cottage cheese.

"Care to share with the class?" Dean asks, switching his full focus to Sam for the first time since they've entered the room. Sam can feel him looking over his shoulder, morbid curiosity leaking from his tone.

"Now you understand my problem," the elderly doctor explains grimly.

"Yeah." Sam nods, frowning.

"Okay, seriously, only room for so many hands in the dead person at once." Dean's irritation manifests in the rolling of his shoulders.

"It's mostly _ashes_ ," Dr. Roberts supplies, getting out his flask for another shot and offering it around the room. Both refuse, though Sam notes Dean does so hesitantly.

"Ashes?" Dean repeats the word carefully. "They stuffed her full of ashes?" He raises an eyebrow. "Man, those craze diets are getting way outta hand." If Sam didn't have his hand in the muck, that might have been funny. But now he's pretty sure his brother has just put him off oatmeal for life.

"No, that's what's left of her organs. She apparently burned from the inside out. Her eyes are fried and her tongue is charred mess. But other than that she has no external injuries or burns. Except for a fairly deep puncture wound in her stomach, but that looks at least a week old. I have no idea what would do this kind of damage." Dr. Roberts sounds far beyond perplexed and his shoulders sag.

Sam starts silently running through monsters and spells in his head, trying to figure out what could do something like this.

"What color were her eyes?" Dean's voice is suddenly urgent. Sam turns to look questioningly at his brother.

The elder Winchester is staring intently at the corpse, his jade eyes frozen, transfixed on her face. "Do you have a picture?" he asks roughly. Sam can't figure out where his brother is going with this, but the look on Dean's face stops him from asking. An old, familiar anxiety sinks its claws into his chest.

Dean looks frightened.

"She had green eyes," the coroner says, producing a photo from a file on one of the trays next to the table. "Here."

Sam notices Dean's hands are trembling as he takes the paper. His lips part and his eyes widen in a look of poorly concealed shock as he stares at the paper. A thin sheen of sweat starts to form on his brow, even though the room is quiet cool.

"Do you have photos of any of the other missing girls?" Dean demands in a fierce whisper. The doctor silently passes over the file he'd taken the photo from. Dean flips it open and Sam hears a harsh rush of air pass through his still-parted lips. As Dean pages through the file his expression grows more and more grim. Sam really wants to know what the fuck is going on.

"Excuse me," Dean says suddenly, shoving the file into Sam's free hand, and then he's out the door running before Sam can even blink.

Sam stands there dumbly for a second, his gaze drawn to the photo sitting on top of the file. Kathrine Beckett's innocent green eyes stare back up at him.

_What the fuck?_

"Squeamish type, eh?" Dr. Roberts ventures from behind him. The squeak of a flask popping open echoes through the room.

* * *

Dean makes a break for the bathroom they passed on the way from the elevator.

_Oh God._

His heart is racing and the sound of blood pumping roars in his ears.

It almost drowns out the echoes of the screams. Almost.

A vicious amalgamation of sensory memory and reality rages in his head like fucking firestorm, the explosion of sounds and smells overwhelming his haggard mind. The screams, the _smell_ of burning flesh, the blinding, razing light and- oh _fuck_ \- he's going to be sick.

The door makes a resonating _crack_ as he slams it open; the sound ricochets off the glossy walls of the small, private bathroom. The motion sensor doesn't trigger until he's already across the room and he's kneeling on the grey tile floor in front of the toilet before the green-tinged florescent lights flicker to life. He doesn't need them, though, to do what he's doing. In fact, he squeezes his eyes shut as the second wave of nausea hits him, gripping the porcelain bowl as he retches.

When it finally passes he sits back on the cold floor, back pressed against the steady, solid wall next to the commode. He keeps his eyes closed and breathes deeply, trying to ward off round three.

Dean isn't sure how long he sits there, listening to his own harsh breathing mingle with the dripping of a faucet somewhere off to his right, but he still can't manage to open his eyes when the door creaks and clicks shut seemingly of its own accord.

"Dean?" Sam's worried voice wafts through the suddenly thick, oppressive air.

"Hey," he croaks out, still keeping his eyes pressed tightly shut. Dean hears his brother's footsteps clop over the floor and a small grunt of effort as he senses the man crouch in front of him. Hands find his shoulders and shake him gently. He finally cracks an eye open.

Sam's face swims into view, oddly distorted in the poor light. His forehead is wrinkled in worry like a cheap suit. His cheap suit is also wrinkled like a cheap suit, Dean notes. It's a stupid observation, he realizes and an unconscious huff of hollow laughter escapes his lips. He might be a little hysterical. Maybe. Probably. Dammit.

"Dean, what the hell?" Sam cautiously reaches up and palms Dean's forehead, checking for a fever and Dean can't help but laugh again, remembering all the times their roles were reversed when they were kids.

"Dean," Sam says again, sounding a little frightened now. His tone motivates Dean to focus on his brother's face.

"Yeah?" he responds thickly. His tongue feels dry and furry and the bitter tang of bile rolls around in his mouth as he speaks.

"Are you really sick? What's wrong, man? This kind of stuff never gets to you." And now Sam is clearly checking him over for injuries and voodoo mojo shit.

"No I..." And he really doesn't want to tell his brother, or anyone for that matter. But then he realizes that if _anyone_ is going to believe him, to _understand_ , it's going to be Sam. Sam, who had been plagued by demonic psychic visions for almost _two years_ when they had first started hunting together again.

_Fuck_ , that sure as hell better not be what this is.

"I saw them, Sammy." Dean clamps his eyes shut again because he can't look at Sam if he's going to go through with this. "...In my dreams," He whispers the admission, fearful of prying ears even in the quiet seclusion of the bathroom.

In the silence that follows he can hear the buzzing of the florescent lights, the steady drip of the tap, and his own too-loud shallow breathing making the worse ambient soundtrack _ever_ and under it all, if he strains his ears, he can just make out the ringing ghostly echo of that poor woman's screaming-

"What?" Sam finally asks, his voice lowered to a harsh whisper.

"In the car the day before yesterday," Dean begins, keeping his eyes shut and leaning his head back against the wall. Deep breaths. "I watched that woman die." His voice is raspy from heaving and his throat burns and he can feel himself sweating now. He inhales slowly, trying to keep himself under control. "I've watched most of those women die."

Sam's hands still on his shoulders and he hears a sharp intake of breath. " _Kate_ ," Sam hisses out and Dean's eyes snap open, seeking out his brother's wide blue eyes in surprise.

"What?" he sputters out. His brother's face pulls in grimace and Dean watches his adam's apple bob up and down in a swallow.

"You said her name," he says tightly. "In the car, in your sleep," he elaborates.

Dean stares numbly, stomach churning anew.

"Dean, there's no way-"

"No way _what_? That I could have known? _You_ knew Sam, _you_ could fucking tell the difference." He stares up at his brother intently. The hands increase their pressure on his shoulders.

"Listen to me, Dean." His brother shakes him for emphasis. "Listen to me. That was different, okay? No, let me finish." Dean tries to argue, but Sam cuts him off. "We don't know if these are visions or what the hell they are. According to the coroner, the time of death was approximately two days ago. That means you dreamed about her dying _as it happened_ , maybe even _after_ it happened, Dean. There is _no way_ we could have saved her. So don't torture yourself with this too," he finishes, looking the most serious Dean has seen him in a while.

"It's not just images," he says softly. "It's like...I dunno, Sammy. It's almost like watching in feel-o-vision. It's hard to see and hear what's going on most of the time, but I can _feel_ everything. Pain, emotion, smells, everything." He swallows against the bile that's threatening to rise again, quickly closing his eyes because they're starting to prickle and dammit, he's not going to cry.

"I'm going to call Bobby," his brother decides after a moment. "And ask him what he knows about dreams. He's already done all that research on it, back from that case a few years ago. And then..." He helps Dean to his feet and begins to lead him out of the bathroom. "We're going back to the motel and you're going to tell me about these dreams. And then you're going to _rest_."

"Yes, mom."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dean likes to beat himself up. A lot. :(
> 
> Being an avid Transformers fan, all Cameros are yellow as far as I'm concerned. I apologize to the state of Indiana, I'm sure all of your towns are lovely. I also apologize to Warwick, Rhode Island. You are the victim of a random selection off an internet map. I'm sure your police department is beautiful and your staff is well qualified.
> 
> Thank you for reading! :)


	4. Cuatro, the Problem Child

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Sam wonders if angels can get cavities; he really hopes they can._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading and for all the kudos, and subscribes. You guys are awesome! :)
> 
> There's a bit in here about the song _Blinded by the Light_. If you're unfamiliar with the song (and its two versions) and curious, you can find out what Dean's talking about pretty easily at the song's wiki page, or by actually listening to the music. (I won't outright ask you to do that because it's like 7 minutes long, but if you haven't heard it, you're missing out!)
> 
> Chapter title reflects author's frustrations.

Sam regards the Dean-shaped pile of blankets on the bed with unease. He isn't sure if the man is asleep, but at least he's horizontal.

They'd had a long, disturbing conversation when they'd gotten back to the motel, but now he finally understands what's been going on with Dean for the last week. Well, that isn't true. Neither of them really _understands_ what is going on with the elder Winchester, but at least Dean isn't trying to hide it anymore.

Sam sits by his phone and distractedly surfs a few sites on dreams and visions while waiting for Bobby to work his magic. The card table he's sitting at is the only piece of furniture in the sparse room besides a couple of folding chairs and the two lumpy queen sized beds. An out-dated television set flickers in the corner on mute, its light melding with the glow of his laptop in the dark of the room. It's only a little after noon now, but Sam had insisted on turning off the lights after he'd had to practically wrestle his stubborn brother into the bed.

From what he's gathered, Dean's dreams are different from the visions he'd had before they'd ganked ol' Yellow Eyes. Sam's visions had always played out like a movie; he'd watch disembodiedly as his "siblings" wreaked havoc. Dean has been watching through someone else's eyes, feeling someone else's pain, like he's plugging in to their head.

The question is, whose?

"Any leads yet, Sammy?" The flutter of wings and the smell of chocolate herald Gabriel's arrival. Out of the corner of his eye Sam notices Dean go unnaturally still on the bed. Damn, so definitely not sleeping then.

Bringing his full attention back to the angel, he watches in mild annoyance as the guy settles in Dean's abandoned chair and puts his sneakered feet up on the table.

Sam sighs, briefly debating how much he should share with the former trickster. Rubbing the bridge of his nose, he sighs again. The guy had died to help them so trust isn't really an issue here, no matter how big of a jerk he is.

"Well, they fished a body out of a lake this morning. Coroner says she died approximately two days ago. Kathrine Beckett-"

"Flew the coop five days ago," Gabriel says with a small, troubled frown. "She wasn't a VIP vessel, but it's still bad news." He nibbles thoughtfully at a candy bar that has literally appeared from thin air, putting his other hand under his chin. "...First virgins... then this chick disappears, but _her_ body turns up..." His voice is soft and contemplative, most likely thinking out loud.

"Hmm..." He scratches his chin.

"How do you know they were all virgins, anyway?" Sam has been wondering about that for a while now.

Gabriel grins. "We have a list," he says matter-o-factly. "You know, like Santa: naughty or nice."

"That's... creepy." Sam is almost sorry he asked.

"But useful." The angel's grin turns into a leer and he wiggles his eyebrows suggestively.

"Right. So." Sam desperately doesn't want to know any details, so he steers the conversation back to its original topic. "This is the first lead the cops have had on the case. Whatever happened to her turned her insides into _charcoal_. Her eyes and tongue were _cooked_." Sam fills the angel in on the details and shows him the copy of the file he'd talked the coroner into making for them.

Gabriel lets out a low whistle.

"That's a helluva way to go."

Sam glances nervously at the occupied bed. "There's something else. Dean's been-"

"Seeing dead people. Well, dying people anyway." Dean sighs, sitting up. "Sam, if we're gonna tell him about me going all Haley Joel, then I may as well do it." He watches as Dean scrubs a hand over his face and tiredly looks up. "Thanks for friggin' _abandoning_ us out there by the way." His hand flexes into a fist, but he doesn't move to get off the bed.

"Too much riding around will make you flabby, you'll thank me later," Gabriel ribs, taking a big, hypocritical bite of chocolate. Dean's eyes narrow and his jaw clenches menacingly. Sam is worried that his brother may actually throw a punch. Again.

But then something changes.

An unidentifiable emotion ripples across Dean's features and he suddenly looks away, the anger on his face collapsing into a blank expression. When he starts speaking again his voice sounds brittle, like it's forced and close to breaking.

"I've been having weird dreams for the last week."

"Sounds like a personal problem."

"Well, I sure as hell _wish_ it was." Dean glares. "But apparently it's _your_ problem." He pauses, eyes narrowing. "It- _you're_ not fucking with my head, are you? Because I _swear_ -" he starts, anger boiling to the surface once more.

"Hold your horses, Grumpy. What're you yammering on about? I haven't been screwing with you..." The angel trails off, looking thoughtful for a moment. "...Yeah, no. Not me." And it kind of worries Sam that the guy had to think about it.

"Well, _someone's_ been messing around in there. Like I said, weird dreams. Dying chicks. I _recognize_ most of the women in that file." He slouches forward, closing his eyes and completely missing the look of surprise Sam sees flash across Gabriel's face.

"Bobby's looking into it," Sam says, watching Gabriel for clues. The angel is looking very intensely at Dean. It's reminiscent of the borderline creepy way that Castiel used to stare at his brother. "...But if you have any ideas, we'd, you know, love to hear them."

Gabriel is quiet for a moment, it's kind of unnerving. He stares hard at Dean for a second longer, a mysterious emotion giving his eyes an eerie glint.

"It could be related to your little romp with Count Dickula," he speculates, raising an eyebrow in an _oh-yes-I-know-all-about-that_ face. Sam feels his chest tighten, he still feels guilty about that.

"Don't even start, Sam." Sam's head whips over to find his brother glaring at him knowingly. He shrugs as Gabriel continues.

"But somehow I doubt His Royal Hellness would be working with bloodsuckers." He pauses, examining his fingernails like they're just talking causally about the weather. "...Could be a connection to the other vessels. Since you're the big kahuna's meat suit, I mean. Though I've never heard of that happening before."

"It happened to me and the other kids Azazel 'roided up," Sam points out.

"Angels and demons, kiddo. Apples and rotten oranges. You all also shared a direct link: Azazel's blood. Vessels aren't all blood related. Granted, bloodlines _are_ important, very much so. That's why you had to drink all that demon blood and Adam just had to bend over. But it's more than that, it also has to do with a person's soul."

Oh god, _Adam_.

Poor Adam, sitting down in the cage all alone with those two.

_You can't help him._ This time the voice is Adam's own, ringing with the ancient power of the archangel that rode him into the cage. Sam discreetly grips his hand under the table and squeezes the anchoring scar. ...And he swears he sees Gabriel's eyes flicker to the table, swears the angel's lips purse together in... what? Displeasure? ...Worry?... But when he blinks, it's gone. And before Sam can dwell on whether or not he's imagined it, his brother speaks.

"Souls?" Dean asks, face scrunching up in arrant confusion. Sam can see passed the feigned ignorance though, can tell he's trying not to think too hard about their half-brother's fate. It's an unspoken burden that weighs on both of their hearts, especially Dean's. He knows Dean still feels responsible for Michael taking Adam. And even though Sam knows it wasn't exactly Sophie's Choice, Dean was still forced to pick which brother Death saved from the cage. Which is so damn _unfair_.

Sam is secretly surprised Dean doesn't drink _more_.

"Yeah, anyone in a bloodline can be a vessel for a little while, depending on how strong the blood is of course. But to be a _good_ vessel, a _true_ vessel, the soul has to be..." Gabriel pauses looking thoughtful and scratches the back of his neck. "How to put it... on the right wavelength, I guess would be the best way I can describe it." He sighs at their twin expressions of blank confusion. "Yeah, sorry. Monkey math? Kinda lacking in the lingo for celestial physics."

"Demon possession is simple in comparison. Demons were once humans, right? So it's like the human body is already hardwired for them. But angels, we're completely different. For one thing, there's the size issue. Demons are human soul sized, easy to fit into a meat suit. Angels are _skyscraper sized masses of celestial intent_ , squeezing _that_ into a person, not gonna lie, it's a little tricky." Sam grimaces at the memories this is pulling out of the fuzzy edges of his mind. Jimmy hadn't been wrong in his comet analogy, it's- unpleasant really is an gross understatement. Having _Meg_ in there with him had been _unpleasant_. Having _Lucifer_ in there, that had been _excruciating_.

"The blood gives the body the physical strength to harbor an angel and the soul gives it supernatural resilience and power. A body is born attuned to its soul. A vessel that's jiving with a bright soul holds up against an angel's mojo way better."

"So... brighter souls make better vessels?" Sam slowly tries to piece together the information.

"Yeah..." Gabriel bobbles his head back and forth in thought. "We're much less... restricted." The angel is clearly having to search for words that they'll understand, and Sam appreciates the effort. It doesn't quiet make sense, but he thinks he gets the gist of it.

Dean gives him a look that says _I'm glad_ you _understand this shit, because_ I _sure has hell don't_. "So, what? My soul is extra shiny?" Dean asks sarcastically.

"Well, can't see it through your bone-bag, but I got glimpses when Gigantor and I were playing Groundhog day." _When I killed you all those times._ Sam sees in his sheepish grin. He's still a little pissed off about _that_ , but he doesn't do more than subtly clench his teeth.

" _Blinded by the Light_ comes to mind," Gabriel suggests.

"And that would make you the douche," Dean say dryly.

Gabriel arches an eyebrow. "The calliope could always crash on _you_ , you know. That's one I haven't tried yet." The former trickster's face twists into a smirk that makes Sam wonder if that's really supposed to be just a joke.

"Right, Springsteen version it is," Dean concedes, looking uncomfortable with the idea.

"But Sam here must be pretty dazzling himself, considering he got Lucifer to do the flaming hoop trick and he was one of Michael's bench warmers," the angel states, gesturing toward Sam.

" _What?_ " the brothers demand in unison. Sam feels kind of like the world just tipped over.

Dean throws his hands up in a halting motion. "Whoa, whoa, whoa. Back the information train up, School House Rock. _Explain_."

"You're saying I'm a vessel for _Michael_?" Sam asks incredulously. Gabriel rolls his eyes skyward and sighs, finally seeming to hit the limits of his patience.

"Don't you two chuckle heads _ever_ listen? Lesser vessels are first come first serve for the little guys, but the big boys? We can only use certain ones, certain blood. We're just _special_ like that. Don't ask me _why_ , dear old Dad just made it that way. You Winchesters are Michael's bloodline," he states with exasperation.

"When the _hell_ did you say any- _any_ of that?" Dean objects. Gabriel just stares at him like he's trying not to turn him into bug and squash him. Which might actually be what's going on, Sam realizes.

"Then why did Lucifer call me his 'true vessel', if I was one of Michael's spares?" Sam draws the attention off his brother with the question. He really does want an answer though. This doesn't make any damn sense.

"Lucy's vessel line got smote to Hell, literally, when he was cast out of Heaven. That Nick guy was one of the last, watered-down leftovers. Think of it as a little extra 'screw you' present from big bro. He figured that since Lucy hated humans so much, he didn't deserve to walk among them anymore. There's a strict dress code you see: no meat suit, no getting into Club Earth. So he had to go find himself a back door into the party. Hence the demonic Ovaltine. Lucifer ordered ol' Yellow Eyes to go find him a strong Michael vessel and infect it. You see, corrupting a vessel with demon blood, Lucifer's "children's" blood, gave him a way in and what better revenge than stealing one of Michael's best toys? Mikey's bloodline had been lost though, as you know, so the best Azazel could do was search for powerful young couples that reeked of divine mojo, potential archangel vessel bloodlines. That Jake kid was one of Raphael's vessels, and Andy and his brother were both mine. Sam, of course, was one of Michael's."

The idea isn't as hard to swallow as it probably should be after the way everyone's been spewing the destiny spiel at him. Maybe Sam is just in shock. It makes sense, he supposes, considering he's also one of John Winchester's sons. He'd wondered about it before, honestly. Why Adam could be Michael's vessel, but he, Sam, wasn't apparently an option. The implications of this information are hard to comprehend though. Why is Gabriel even telling them all of this?

"About what I said back in that warehouse..." the angel says quietly, as if he's been reading Sam's mind. Maybe he has, who knows? "Sam, you should know...The Fight _was_ supposed to be a sure thing and Lucifer chose you long before you were even born. But _he_ chose you, not destiny. I kinda fibbed there."

"Now there's a shocker," Dean scoffs. Gabriel's eye twitches, but he ignores the interruption.

"Demons have been trying to manipulate you since you were six months old. Through it all, you've fought the good fight. Sure, you had a snag or two on the way, a lying demon bitch here, a little blood addition there. But in the end, you and your _peach of a brother_ -" He pauses, giving Dean a writhing look. "-proved all those demons _and angels_ wrong. You beat the Devil at his own game, kiddo. That was all you." And that isn't really an answer, or even an apology, or whatever the hell it's supposed to be, but it's probably all he's going to get.

So then destiny hadn't apparently chosen him to be the vessel of the Devil, Lucifer himself had. Out of spite, no less. Strangely Sam feels a little lighter with that knowledge, like a little bit of the darkness he's carried for _years_ has faded.

He suspects that might have been Gabriel's intent, but he can't for the life of him figure out _why_.

A contemplative silence stretches between the three.

"So then why didn't Team Apocalypse try to jump his bones then when I said no? Wouldn't it have been easier if Michael had just taken Lucifer's new toy away?" Dean finally asks, he seems to be taking the news in stride, which surprises Sam. Maybe he's just too burnt out to blow another fuse right now.

"The demon blood had the added bonus of ruining the vessel for its intended dance partner. If Michael had tried to tango with Sam, his blood would have rejected him. It would have destroyed his body in _hours_."

"So, let me get this straight, Lucifer had Azazel crash the archangel bake-off and spit in as many pies as he could?" Sam blanches at Dean's choice of metaphor.

"And had his own little demonic pie contest," the angel continues. "Gift-wrapped the tastiest one for Lucifer." And if the thought isn't disturbing enough, Gabriel chooses that moment to wink suggestively at Sam and the younger Winchester freezes when his stomach does a bizarre little flip-flop.

_Oh God._ Sam is mortified as he feels his cheeks heat up. He's not going to blush. He's not blushing. Seriously. Goddammit, he'll never hear the end of it.

"Oh- Oh, that's just not right," Dean mutters morosely. "The Devil ate my brother's pie." He puts his face in his hands. And Gabriel is thankfully distracted by staring at Dean again, squinting his eyes in concentration.

"So, what? We're going with this vessel connection theory?" Sam asks quickly, trying _really hard_ to not think about what his brother just said. The last thing he needs right now is to start hellucinating about _that_.

Gabriel drops his feet from the table and sits forward, eyes never leaving Dean.

"I just got one question for Jean Grey, here." Dean spreads his fingers, eyes peeking out warily from behind his hands. Gabriel is quiet for a moment, deliberating something.

"These dreams, are you seeing the big picture or are you a part of the show?" the angel asks finally. Dean's hands slowly drop to his lap.

"I was there. It was like I was a _person_ there," he says softly, sounding slightly hoarse.

"As the damsel in distress?" Gabriel's eyes narrow.

"No," Dean scoffs.

"As the bad guy?"

" _What?_ -No! I don't know what I was. I was tied up and it fucking _hurt_. There was fire and red _glowing_ shit written on the walls-" And then Dean freezes, eyes widening. "Sonuvabitch," he breaths.

"What?" Sam asks.

"The crap on the walls, it was Enochian. _That's_ why it looked so damn familiar, they were kinda like the angel proofing Bobby covered the house in when..." Dean trails off, jaw clenching. Sam doesn't need him to finish, he knows what his brother means.

When they were trying to keep Castiel out.

"Man, Crowley really doesn't want you feather heads up in his shit," Dean surmises.

And that's when they both realize that they're short one angel.

"Must run in the family," Sam murmurs, turning back to his laptop as his brother flops back on the bed saying something about dick angels and sucky goodbyes. Sam can't help but smile.

"Well ladies, I got us another lead."

Dean surges up, automatically reaching for his gun. Sam knocks over his chair in his rush to stand at the sudden declaration. Gabriel blinks at them innocently, causally leaning against the wall next to the table as if he'd never left.

"Don't friggin' _do that_!" Dean shouts, shakily putting his gun down.

"Geez, lighten up," Gabriel huffs, unwrapping a sucker and popping it into his mouth. Sam wonders if angels can get cavities; he really hopes they can.

"Do you guys take lessons in bad entrances? 'Cause you and all your bros, you guys suck at it."

"Yeah, at S-C- _Screw-You_ ," the former trickster replies snarkily.

"Look, just-" Sam pauses to rub his forehead, feeling an honest to God _normal_ headache coming on. "-just tell us what you found. Please."

Gabriel deflates some and grins. "Well, since you asked so nicely." He glances at Dean. The man sticks his tongue out. Sam wants to scream.

Luckily, the angel doesn't retaliate. "There's an old building in the woods north-east of here covered in angel proofing. Looks like the typical rat-infested, spooky shit you two to get hard-ons for," he says, pointing between the two.

"Great." Sam sighs, clapping his hands on his thighs.

Dean rolls his eyes and falls back on the bed again.

"One more question." Gabriel produces a piece of paper from nowhere and walks over, shoving it in Dean's face. "Recognize her?"

Dean snatches the paper and holds it above his face, squinting at it for a moment. "No, who is she?"

"She's the other vessel that disappeared. Vanished early in the morning the day I came to see you."

Sam goes over and plucks the paper form Dean's slackened grip, examining it. A pretty young woman with shoulder length dark brown hair and green eyes smiles up at him from what looks like a college graduation photo.

"If you don't recognize her then there's a chance she's still alive."

And with that little revelation, the angel is gone.

* * *

It takes them the better part of the afternoon to find the place.

"It _had_ to be an old asylum," Dean mutters to himself as they cover the Camero in fallen pine branches.

They've parked the car at the edge of the woods that circle the abandoned building and Sam has somehow convinced him that it would be _wise_ to camouflage it.

"Hey, coulda been worse," Sam states, covering the back end.

"Oh really? How exactly?" Dean demands, stepping back to admire their work. Yeah, no one would notice this yellow car here. In the woods. Covered in dead branches. Never going to happen.

Sam looks at him and utters one horrifying word.

"Witches."

"...Touche. Right, lets go." And with that they begin their trek through the woods.

An uneventful five minute walk later, they're staring at the building from the tree line of a large, flat clearing of thick, knee-length grass. It stands like a brick monolith, casting a foreboding shadow. Rhode Island State Asylum has been closed for a few years and apparently utterly forgotten by society. It's a perfect place for quietly committing diabolical crimes against nature. Or whatever the hell Crowley is up to.

The place is completely unguarded.

"Dude."

"Yeah, something's not right here."

"Maybe this isn't the place."

"Oh, yeah. Because there are probably four or five friggin' creepy, rundown buildings out here," Dean says sarcastically.

"No, just the one. There's a piss-poorly disguised Camero about a quarter mile from here though," a voice suddenly answers from behind them. Gah, he'd known that was a stupid idea. They turn in unison to stare at the former fake pagan god leaning on a tree behind them. "Honestly, I think it would have looked _less_ conspicuous if you had just set it on _fire_." Gabriel gives them a dubious look.

"Dude," Dean begins, shoving his finger in Sam's direction. "It was _his_ idea."

Sam huffs indignantly. "It was a _good_ idea!"

"Maybe if we were boyscouts. And _twelve_."

"Anyway." Sam turns back to the building, cheerfully flipping Dean off. "It looks pretty deserted." And it does. It looks like no one has been there in years. Certainly doesn't look like any hocus pocus shit is going down.

"Well, it's, you know, lit up like a friggin' _lite-brite_ with _invisible angel proofing_. So _something's_ going on in there."

Gabriel walks forward to join them. "I'm guessing, judging by Dean-o's dream, that there's more warding on the inside too. Look at the windows." Dean squints and sure enough there are red squiggles on every. Single. Window. Dammit.

"And since I'm sure you two scoobies are just gonna go barging in there," Gabriel speculates, his face softening slightly. "A word of warning." The archangel turns his attention on Dean.

"I don't think lil' bro ever told you this, he probably didn't want you to know. Your track record shows that you don't seem to have any trouble with the warding. But Dean, don't go playing leap frog with any holy fire, okay?" Gabriel's looking serious again, and having all that _focus_ focused on him is unnerving.

"Wasn't on my bucket list, but now I gotta ask. Why?" Dean frowns.

"I have it on good authority that when Castiel dragged you outta Hell, he left a fragment of himself behind." Dean isn't sure what he expected Gabriel to say, but that sure as hell hadn't been it.

"What, you mean like, in the pit?" he asks slowly.

"No, in you."

What the _fuck_?

"That's-" Dean reflexively touches his chest. "Why the hell would he do that?" Dean demands incredulously. Sam remains silent but Dean can see the confusion plain on his face.

He's more than a little disturbed by the idea. Hell, he feels kind of violated. Apparently he's been carrying around a _piece_ of Cas for the last _three and a half years_? And nobody ever thought to share that information with him? ...Cas never thought to tell him? Sure Gabriel's telling him now, but it's a little late in the ball game. He has no fucking clue what this means.

"I can't answer that," the angel says cryptically. "I just thought you'd like to know you have a piece of lil' bro in there. I'd hate to see anything happen to it." And despite his confusion and anger, Dean can't help but agree with that. He knows for certain that he doesn't want to, unwittingly or no, kill the last bit they have of their friend with holy fire.

And then he begins to wonder if- if he focuses _really hard_... maybe he can feel...

But no, he doesn't feel anything. There's nothing but the same empty ache that's been there since he watched a trench coated figure sink beneath the dark Municipal Waters of Bootbock, Kansas. That hollow feeling that sits deep inside...

He's going to lose his damn mind before this is over.

Maybe he already has.

_Knock it off._

"Good authority? More Chuck?" Sam asks, sounding suspicious and indignant on Dean's behalf.

"Jimmy Novak, actually."

"Jimmy? Jimmy's _alive_?" Sam echoes Dean's surprised exclamation. A small warm feeling flickers to life in his chest and Dean hates himself for daring to hope so easily.

"No." Gabriel has the decency to look apologetic. And just as fast the feeling snuffs out, as if it never existed, leaving Dean feeling stupidly disappointed and cold.

"Then _how_?"

"Ol' Jimmy boy's been eating at the great White Castle in the sky since Raphael smote him and lil' bro to Kingdom Come in that prophet's living room. He apparently didn't revive with Cas."

Well that's a bit of a relief. Sad and messed up, but a relief none the less. At least the man hadn't had to suffer through the last two and a half years. And who knows what would have happened to him, trapped in there with the leviathans. They still don't know what really happened...

_He's gone. He's dead._

Dean has to physically shake himself out of that train of thought. They have a job to do, he needs to focus on that. They have someone to save _now_.

"Alright, we'll check this out. Come on, Velma." He motions for Sam to follow him.

His brother rolls his eyes, but obliges. "We'll see you later," Sam throws over his shoulder.

"Hold up a sec," the angel calls behind them. Sam turns around just in time to catch a pouch that's tossed at him. "You might need that."

"What is it? A hex bag?" Dean eyes the leather sack dubiously. For all they know it could come to life and start biting.

"No, call it a supernatural Bat-Signal. Burn it if you run into trouble, it'll tip off the cavalry."

"And how exactly do you plan on get in there?"

"Who says I'll be the one that's coming?" Gabriel waves off Dean's question. "Don't loose it. And don't use it unless it's life or death. I had to call in a favor for that and he wasn't a happy camper." The former trickster smirks and vanishes without elaborating.

Dickwad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I played with some weird ideas in this chapter. I hope it makes sense. Honestly, I've read this thing so many times I've gone cross-eyed and can't really tell up from down anymore. I figure it must be canon for angels and demons to not be able to see people's souls just by looking at them since no one seems to notice that Sam doesn't have one for a good chunk of time.
> 
> Also, Gabriel started sneaking vague Sabriel in there.
> 
> The mascot of S-C-Screw-You is, ironically, a bolt named Hammers.
> 
> Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed it! :)


	5. Into the Breach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Did he mention that this place creeps him the fuck out?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all who are reading this, and again for all the kudos and subscribes and bookmarks. ❤

They prowl the tree line for about an hour, looking for the best point of entry. The place is pretty nondescript: brick walls, two stories high, glass pane windows covered in wire mesh. All in all, it's a pretty average looking asylum by Dean's standards.

It's getting dark by the time they finally decide that the best way in is probably through the short, boxy annex that juts out of the east side of the building and comes within about twenty feet of the woods, giving them the least time out in the open possible. (Not that the bad guys probably won't see them coming anyway.) It looks like some sort of laundry room or kitchen or some other industrial facility shit.

The meadow surrounding the building is eerily quiet as they hurry across it. No crickets chirping, no owls hooting, just dead silence except for the sound of their shoes ripping through the tangled stalks of grass and treading on the soft earth beneath. It's like whatever is going on in the building is so repulsive, so _unnatural_ , that it's scared away the local wildlife.

This thought disturbs Dean far more than the fact that they are probably walking into a damn demon nest.

As they approach the white, peeling wooden door they plan to bust in through, Dean notices an uneven yellow-orange line running along the base of the wall. The grass is shriveled and dead wherever it touches the building.

Did he mention that this place creeps him the fuck out?

"There is _no way_ this is not a trap," Sam muses beside him as he pries open the rusty padlock.

"If it shits like a duck..." Dean agrees, helping his brother negotiate the swollen wooden door away from its jam. No one has evidently used this entrance since the place closed.

The door finally groans and pops free, stuttering and creaking as it opens, revealing a dark, ominous-as-Hell room that smells like musty old gym socks. Probably full of spiders and creepy-crawly shit too. Awesome. Not that Dean is afraid of spiders. He just doesn't particularly _like_ things that can crawl into your shirt while you're sleeping and bite you twice right on the nipple so that you're stuck for the next two days trying to discretely scratch at it while your brother isn't looking. Not that that has _ever_ happened, mind you.

He strains his ears, listening for any kind of alarm they may have just triggered, but can only hear the sound of his and his brother's own quiet breathing. Then again, if there had been an alarm on the door it'd have been a magical one. Which probably wouldn't make any sound. Fuck.

Sam goes in first, ducking his head to avoid the near-invisible cobwebs that hang low in the doorway. Dean hears the click of his brother's flashlight and suddenly a beam of light illuminates their path. There's a dusty wooden counter about ten feet in front of them and Dean thinks he can make out a couple front-loading washers on the other side of the room. Laundry room then.

"Guess demons are dry-clean only," he quips, taking in the desolate state of the room.

"Or they never change clothes," Sam suggests, moving further in. His brother has a point. Dean can't remember the last time he'd seen Crowley wear something other than that black getup. Though apparently the demon had had a tailor at one point (until the poor sap had gotten eaten), so who knows?

In fact, supernatural creatures don't seem to be particularly fond of wardrobe changes in general. With the exception of Gabriel, of course. But that clown doesn't count. Dean's mind can't help but wander to the ugly-yet-endearing tan trench coat sitting in the back of the Impala, where he'd left it at Frank's...

_Stop it._

"I'm not seeing any warding on the walls in here," Sam says, flashing the light around the room.

"May be only certain rooms. This place is like, friggin' Buckingham Palace huge." Dean moves around the counter, weaving through piles of long-forgotten clothing and bedding, heading toward the set of promising looking double doors at the far side of the room. "Here's hoping the Queen isn't home," he adds, reaching for the doors.

They aren't even locked and give way easily under Dean's calloused hands. He blinks hard as his eyes adjust to the sudden invasion of light that spills from behind the doors. Beyond is a hallway with faded yellow linoleum and white walls; bright, white tracts of halogen lights hum overhead and trail its length. The corridor is lined with smaller doors, all sporting petite safety glass windows.

"Well, the lights are on," Sam points out from over Dean's shoulder. " _Somebody_ must be home."

"Follow the yellow brick road," Dean mutters, waving Sam passed him. As the brothers make their way down the hall they each pick a side and peek through the windows.

"Empty," Sam whispers after checking the first one on his side.

"Empty," Dean echoes, checking another.

"Empty."

"Empty."

"Body." Sam pauses as Dean comes over to look in the window. A- well, Dean isn't really sure what the hell it is- _Thing_ is lying motionless on the floor, glazed red eyes staring up seemingly unseeing at the stained ceiling. Its body is a collage of scales and fur and ... _feathers_? It looks fairly humanoid otherwise and it's clearly female.

"Is that- is that a _tail_?" Sam asks incredulously. Dean presses his face against the cold glass, squinting. Yes, the Thing does indeed have a tail. The long, _disgusting_ , pink limb protrudes from underneath the prone form. It reminds Dean of a rat's tail and quite frankly gives him the heebie-jeebies.

"That's so not hot," he says with a grimace.

"We should... probably get a closer look," Sam suggests, but doesn't look too pleased with the idea. He reaches down and jiggles the doorknob. Dean's well-trained ear can tell it's locked just by the sound.

The sudden movement beyond the door catches them both off guard.

In the blink of an eye the window is full of sharp, gnashing teeth and furious red eyes.

"Holy shit!" Dean balks, stumbling backward several feet. Sam yelps and lets go of the doorknob, but remains where he is.

"It's _alive_ ," the younger Winchester exclaims, voice hoarse with horror. Dean can't do more than stare as the Thing claws at the door and screams at them soundlessly. The room must be sound-proof, he notes offhand.

"One of the more... _playful_ results," a high voice comments from the left. Sam and Dean both startle and whip their heads around, seeking out its owner.

"Don'tcha just wanna give her a _big ol' hug_?" The hot secretary from the police station (Stacy? Susie?) stands in the deserted hallway, her pretty face twisted in a malicious smirk.

"Howdy, fellas," she says, taking a high-heeled step forward. "I was hoping I'd get to see your _darling_ pretty-boy faces again before those piranhas ate them off." And now Dean's pretty sure he knows who they're dealing with.

Goddammit, could this day get any worse?

"Meg," he states tiredly. Sam must have figured it out too because he doesn't look surprised. "Back into blondes now?"

She laughs. "Little Susie homewrecker here is just a means to an end. Easy to keep track of how much the mud monkeys know if you're rubbing elbows with their chief."

"So you and Crowley are playing house now? Thought he wanted your head on a stick," Sam accuses. The last time they'd met, she and the little-gremlin-that-could had definitely not been seeing eye to black eye.

"I got tired of slumming it." She crosses her arms over her chest. "Figured if you can't flay 'em, join 'em."

"And he just let you come waltzing back in? All 'Honey, I'm Home' like? Somehow I doubt that," Dean comments, eyes darting around, looking for a means of escape. Unfortunately, their duffle bag is sitting in front of the door where he'd dropped it, a couple feet out of either of their reach. Dammit.

"I went on a little fishing trip in Kansas." She takes another step. The door rattles as the Thing renews its efforts to tear them to shreds. "Brought Crowley my catch of the day as a peace offering. He was _head-over-heels_. _Thrilled_ with a capital 'T'. Totally willing to kiss and make up." And there's an image Dean definitely didn't ever want in his head.

"So you've been doing Crowley's grocery runs? A couple vessels and a six-pack of virgins?"

Meg grins viciously, eyes flashing black. She seems oddly disappointed, though, when she speaks. "You slugs are slower than I thought. I'm not that dick's errant boy, I'm the babysitter." She pauses thoughtfully, then shrugs. "It's not exactly all sunshine and rainbows, but there are perks. For example," she says, voice becoming almost gleeful and her black eyes gleaming with malicious intent as she cocks her head to the side. "I get to punish the children when they misbehave. This is going to be _fun_."

_This is going to be so much_ fun _._

_Not now,_ Dean mentally snaps at himself, but he doesn't need to berate himself further because at that moment Meg raises her hand and goes all Sith Lord on them. A ceiling panel crashes down on Sam's head; the force knocks him back and he slams into the wall next to the door. Dean shouts his name as he slumps down, his eyes closed. The bitch must have remembered that the Dark Side of the Force doesn't work on him directly, damn.

A couple seconds later Dean finds himself flying backwards and skidding down the hallway. The impact knocks the wind out of him and he struggles to unlock his lungs as he hears quick footsteps coming toward him. There's a coppery tang in his mouth, he's pretty sure he bit his tongue.

"Dean, Dean, Dean," Meg tsks as she stops over him. "As ease as ever."

As he lays there trying to get in enough air to produce a comeback, he tries _really_ hard not to look up her dress, honestly he does, but it proves impossible when she decides to dig her high-heel into his trachea. And he'd really love to just stab her right in the kneecap, but his hands are too busy wrestling with the red pump at his throat to reach for Ruby's knife.

She glares down at him like he's an insect and that's just fine by him as long as she doesn't notice that Sam's awake and has gotten up and is now picking the lock on the door with the Thing in it. Dean is more than a little worried that Meg has knocked his brother's fragile sanity right out of the park, but he tries to keep her distracted anyway.

"Nice panties," he wheezes. "Didn't take you for a frills and lace kind of bitch."

"When in Rome..." She shrugs, pressing down harder on his throat. It's pretty impossible to breath now and his vision is starting to tunnel. Sam had better hurry the fuck up.

"Yeah," he forces out. "Aphrodite, you ain't."

She leans down, hands fisting on her hips, and snarls. "I spit in your coffee."

Dean doesn't have time to do more than make a disgusted gurgling sound in the back of his throat, because a shrill howl rips through the air as the door bursts open. He tries to grin up at her, knowing that any second now he's either going to get his spine crushed, or be clawed to death by whatever the fuck that Thing is, and he wants to piss her off as much as possible in the meantime.

So he's _very_ surprised when a flurry of claws, fur, and feathers tackles Meg like a Goddamn linebacker. Her body disappears from his narrowed field of vision, and he winces when he hears her clash to the floor with a sickening crack. If Susan the secretary hadn't been a goner already, there's no doubt in his mind that she is now.

"OFF!" she screams furiously. "BITCH! I'll feed you to- AH!" There are disgusting, wet tearing sounds, but he doesn't turn to find out what the Thing is doing to her while he's scrambling to his feet and running like hell down the hallway on Sam's heels.

They turn a corner into another deserted hallway and run through another set of double doors, slamming them shut behind them. Sam shoves a wooden stake through the handles to barricade it, while Dean lines the door with salt from a flask from the duffle bag that Sam had thankfully grabbed during their escape. It's not going to hold long, but it'll buy them some time at least.

"Venus," his brother remarks, bent down with his hands on his knees, panting.

"What?" he hisses, confused.

"In Roman mythology, she's called Venus." And it is so absurdly _Sam_ to be worried about getting insults _mythologically correct_ that Dean would laugh if he were physically able.

"Dude," he wheezes out instead, rubbing his throat. "It's all geek to me." Sam huffs out a chuckle and shakes his head. Plaster dust drifts off his head and shoulders onto the floor.

"So," Dean says hoarsely. "How'd you know it'd go for her?"

"I didn't," Sam admits, mouth pulling down into a sheepish frown.

"Ah." Dean takes a few seconds to digest that fact, then reaches over and socks his bat-shit crazy brother in the shoulder. "Bitch."

"Ouch, jerk." Sam offers him a half grin and straightens up. "How's the throat?" He eyes Dean in concern.

"I'll live," Dean confirms, standing up. "But I don't think I'll be singing opera any time soon. How's the head?" he shoots back, eying a chunk plaster in his brother's hair. Sam really doesn't need any more holes poked in his pinata.

"I think she knocked a couple points off my IQ." Sam reaches up and gingerly shakes more white shit out of his hair, checking for injury. "But Lucifer isn't tap dancing in the corner, if that's what you're asking." And that is actually what Dean is asking, but he decides to be a dick about it anyway.

"No? Ballet this time? Or maybe a strip tease?" The mortified expression on Sam's face makes him feel better for some reason. His heart rate start returning to normal and his breathing steadies.

A shriek pierces through the door behind them.

"We should go."

"Yeah."

They navigate through a labyrinth of corridors aimlessly. Most of the rooms are empty, but they do find a couple more Things locked away. (Which they leave the hell _alone_.) After about ten minutes of wandering Dean is beginning to get frustrated. He sneaks a peek around what's got to be the twentieth corner and stops short.

There are two guards at the set of doors down the hall holding fucking _machine guns_.

"That's- that's just awesome," Dean comments, assessing the situation.

"Rock, paper, scissors?" Sam offers. Dean sighs and holds up his hand.

_1..._

_2..._

_3..._

_Aw, shit._

Why does he even bother?

"Seriously, Dean, always with the scissors." Sam shakes his head and pats him on the back. Dean rolls his eyes and squares his shoulders before walking around the corner.

"Evening boys." He waves at the two. "Am I late for group?"

The guards startle and immediately take aim.

" _Winchester_ ," the one on the right snarls, eyes blinking to black. Dean puts his hands up and nods sagely.

"I see my reputation precedes me. Want an autograph?"

They open fire.

"Guess not," Dean throws over his shoulder as he turns and runs, dodging bullets and skidding around the corner.

Sam is already ready and tackles one as it turns the corner after him. Dean gets the other in the chest with Ruby's knife as it follows. He quickly retrieves it and stabs the one wrestling with his brother in the back.

"They make it so easy." He grins as he holsters the blade and offers Sam a hand up.

"Lets put the bodies in there." Sam points to a small door labeled 'Custodian'.

After dragging the bodies into the broom closet, they cautiously make their way to the double doors and peer into the windows.

The room is fairly large and definitely some sort of lab. A man in a white coat hovers over a steel table, arranging instruments. He looks like he's in his late forties, early fifties. The bright industrial lighting reflects off the bald patch on the top of his head as he bustles around the room with a nervous air about him.

The place is a nerd's wet dream; there are counters along the walls covered with beakers, test tubes, Bunsen burners, and everything else you could imagine to find in a mad scientist's hang out. All of them are filled with viscous slime in various hues of pink. If Dean didn't know better, he'd think that shit is _glowing_.

"It's like Ghostbusters II up in there," he whispers. Sam opens his mouth to respond, but pauses and snaps it shut again, frowning thoughtfully.

"Hey," he says. "Didn't that Vickers guy say something about a missing scientist?"

"What of it, Columbo? Said the guy's cougar shit by now."

"Yeah, but- what if he isn't?"

"You mean what if demons kidnapped him while he was playing Davy Crockett with his kids?" He mulls over the idea, peering back into the room. "I wouldn't put it passed them," he concedes with a shrug.

In the middle of the room, a woman lays motionless on a table, her eyes closed. Her skin is pale against her red sweater and jeans. The clothes look oddly clean for having been held captive for a couple days, but Dean puts aside the observation; she's probably spent most of her time drugged or something. Dark shoulder-length hair fans out underneath her head, almost black against the shining metal of the table. The steady rise and fall of her chest is the only indication that she's alive.

The man wheels a tray over to the occupied examination table, an assortment of scalpels, knives, and tongs sit on it, along with a gruesomely large, old fashioned syringe filled with the pink shit that glints sinisterly under the artificial lighting.

That's all the invitation the brothers need. With mirrored nods, they push the doors open.

"Who are you?" the man asks, sounding terrified. He throws up his hands in surrender and backs away from the table toward one of the counters.

"Easy, man. We're here to help you," Sam says with a well-practiced disarming smile, walking toward the man.

"You aren't one of those things?" the man ask, sagging in relief and rubbing a hand at his eyes tiredly.

"No, we're the things _they're_ afraid of," Dean affirms, walking over to examine the woman on the table, he recognizes her from the photo Gabriel gave them.

"So you're police? I-is my family okay?" the man stutters. Well, that pretty much confirms Sam's theory. "They said they'd hurt them if I didn't help them. Please tell me they're okay!"

"They're fine as far as we know," Sam's calm voice carries from over his shoulder. Dean hears his brother come up behind him to examine the girl himself. "That's her," Sam confirms.

"Is she okay?" Dean asks, turning back toward the scientist.

That's when he realizes they'd fucked up.

The man is standing behind Sam and grinning, already swinging a heavy looking beaker at his brother's head.

_Shit._

Why _wouldn't_ they just possess the scientist?

The glass explodes on contact with Sam's skull, sending a shower of shards tinkling to the ground. His brother's eyes clamp shut and his body crumples.

"Sam!" he shouts automatically.

But before he can go to his brother's aid, there's a whisper of cloth and movement behind him.

_Fuck._

Why wouldn't they just possess the girl _too_?

He turns just in time for the blow to get him in the gut instead of the kidney. Time slows down as hot agony shoots up his side, but he keeps twisting, using the momentum to slam her back onto the table. The demon uses his momentum in turn to flip him over the table and onto the floor.

He lays there, staring up at the blinding lights in a daze, vaguely aware of a mumbling voice and a struggle going on on the floor on the other side of the table. Sam hadn't been knocked unconscious then. That's a relief.

Before he can recover though, the demon bitch throws herself on top of him, trying to claw his eyes out. He throws his arms up and grabs her by the wrists in defense. Her knee comes up and slams into whatever the hell she stabbed him with and- _fuck_ \- does it hurt as it twists under his skin.

"You're gonna die," she hisses in his face, teeth bared in a snarl.

"Tell me something I don't know, brimstone breath," he grunts back as he manages to flip them over, gaining leverage. Luckily the girl is a lightweight. But the small victory is short-lived because she immediately uses her demonically enhanced strength to kick him off, sending him crashing into the wall next to the door and sliding to the floor.

In the moment of painful reprieve he has as she staggers to her feet, his eyes seek out Sam, who has his back fixed to the floor under the scientist, still wrestling with the man.

He's chanting just loud enough to hear.

" _...Ut inimicos sanctae..._ "

The demon charges at him, arms outstretched and fingers clawed.

" _...Ecclesiae humiliare digneris..._ "

Dean grins as she falters and stumbles.

" _...te rogamus, audi nos!_ " Sam's voice crescendos as he finishes.

Both demons make guttural groans as black fumes pour from their mouths and melt through the floor. Their bodies collapse in tandem as the last of the trailing wisps of sulfuric smoke vanish. Sam immediately searches the man on top of him for a pulse.

"Dammit," he curses. "He's dead." It doesn't really surprise Dean, the guy's been gone over a month after all.

"Chick's alive," Dean calls back after checking her pulse. She's haphazardly sprawled in his lap and between his legs as he leans against the wall for support. He moves to push her to the side but halts the action as pain shoots through him again. _Damn_ , his side is on _fire_. Oh, right...

Dean reaches down to pull out the weapon and freezes.

_Are you fucking kidding me?_

His fingers grasp the cool glass chamber of the syringe and he tugs it out of his side, holding it up in front of his face.

It's empty.

_Oh, fuck me._

He's staring at it dumbly when his brother finally staggers to his feel, blood seeping out of his hairline. He takes one look at Dean, still under the unconscious woman, holding the empty syringe and pales.

"Did it...?" he asks, voice full of quiet dread.

Dean nods grimly, swallowing.

"I better not turn into a Jefferson Starship. Again," he jokes weakly.

"That isn't funny," Sam says flatly, leaning down and wincing as he helps Dean push the unconscious girl off of him.

"How's the head?" Dean watches as Sam brushes blood out of his eye. He know from years of experience that head injuries always look worse than they are, but he can't help but worry anyway.

"Fine," Sam answers shortly, moving Dean's jacket out of the way and peeling his shirt up to examine him.

Sam sucks in a breath and Dean knows he probably really doesn't want to know. He looks down anyway and assesses the damage with a grimace. The thick needle had twisted around, tearing a small, deep gash into his side. Dark red blood oozes slowly from the wound.

"How deep is it?" Sam asks, helping Dean to his feet.

"'Bout five inches, I'd say," he says, examining the needle. "Probably pierced an organ or two." He looks down at himself. "Not that it matters now," he adds grimly.

"Dean!" Sam exclaims in horror.

"Sam, if I start _growing_ shit, you're going to shoot me," Dean orders sternly. It's surprisingly easy for him to resign himself to the thought. Probably because they'd already had a similar conversation once before.

"But we don't even know what was in there!" his brother cries.

"Exactly!" he says back forcefully.

"No, Dean."

" _Sam._ "

" _No, Dean!_ You're going to hold on long enough for us to get out of hear and then Gabriel is going to fix you."

"But what if he can't."

"He will," Sam says firmly, looking around the room.

"If something happens _before_ that, Sammy-"

"It won't," Sam argues with fierce certainty. He walks over to one of the counters and plucks a sealed tube off one of the racks, pocketing it.

"What's that?" Dean asks, clutching his hand to his stomach as the burn eases into a pulsing throb. He manages to stand up straight without too much effort.

"Hopefully a sample of whatever that bitch got you with," Sam says grimly.

"Speaking of, we need to get her out of here." Dean motions to the woman sprawled on the floor. She's alive, but that doesn't mean she's out of the woods. They need to get her to a hospital as soon as possible.

"We need to get you _both_ out of here," Sam corrects, eying him warily. "How do you feel?" He asks more quietly.

"I'm _wonderful_. Was thinking about running a marathon later with your friend Lance friggin' Armstrong." He knows it isn't right, but he's trying to make Sam angry. Trying to distract him so that he doesn't have to think too much about what he may have to do later-

"Don't do that." Sam levels him with a dark look, his blue eyes shadowed and heavy with worry.

_Dammit._

"Do wha-"

"Just stop it, Dean. I know what you're trying to do. Stop. It." Sam narrows his eyes.

Dean hesitates. "...Doesn't hurt much." It's a lame attempt as far as apologies go, but it's better than what he usually offers his brother. And it really doesn't hurt much now. He's not sure if that is a good sign, probably isn't. The wound isn't even bleeding anymore, he notes when he lifts his hand to check it.

Sam nods mutely in acceptance and moves to the doors they'd come through. He peers through one of the windows, ducking down quickly.

"Couple guards out there, they found the bodies," he states. Not really a shocker, they'd left blood spatter in the hallway.

Dean looks around, spotting another door on the opposite side of the room. "So, test our luck with the guards, or take the mystery prize behind door number two?" The hex bag thing Gabriel gave them springs to mind, but he's not sure if this counts as life or death, and honestly he's more than a little afraid to use it.

Sam peeks into the window again. "Four guards now," he sighs.

"Door number two it is," Dean decides, walking over and grabbing the doorknob. He's already opening the door by the time he registers that the knob is hot and he jumps back in surprise as flames spring up behind it.

"Is- is that _holy fire_?" Sam asks in disbelief from over his shoulder.

Dean's answer dies on his lips as he looks into the room. The walls of the large, open area are spotted with red sigils and the floor is circumvented with a ring of fire. A figure is suspended in the middle of the room on a metal rack, their arms stretch out horizontally and bound by branded leather straps, a matching strap securing their waist. Because they're facing the set of doors on the left side of the room, the figure is mostly obscured, but their shirtless state relays that they are male.

One thought pounds through Dean's mind.

It's the room.

_Holy shit_ , it's _the_ room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meg was really tricky to write; I modeled her after the most resent Meg (Rachel Miner) because she's my favorite version. Oh, and I got the exorcism (the last bit of it anyway, since that's all I used) off of the supernatural wiki.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed it. :)


	6. The Ring of Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It's the room._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thank you all for reading and for the kudos/bookmark/subscribe love! :)

It's the room.

_Holy shit_ , it's _the_ room.

"Maybe we should just use the bag." Sam's suggestion breaks Dean out of his stupor and he springs into action. He spins around, ignoring the comment completely and searching for something to use to cross the fire, Gabriel's warning running though his mind.

"What are you doing?" his brother asks carefully.

"Gotta go in there," he states, conviction giving his words finality. He's not going to back down on this.

Finding nothing else to use, Dean drags the large steel table over to the door. "Little help here, Muscles?"

"What? Why?" Sam asks slowly, tone heavy with uncertainty. "We don't have time to screw around, Dean." He comes over anyway and helps flip the table over as quietly as possible. It's just narrow enough to slide through the door. Perfect.

"That's _the_ room, the one I've been dreaming about and I _have to know why_ , Sam." His voice is rough and his heart his pounding wildly in his chest in time with the ache in his gut. He knows he probably sounds crazed, but he needs to know, needs to understand _why_ this has been happening to him. The intensity of the emotion fuels his efforts; he positions the table so that it's fully over the flames.

"Listen," he sighs, leaning against one of the steel legs and trying to calm down. Sam's more likely to agree to this crazy-ass shit if he at least sounds rational. "Let's just Dora the Explorer this bitch so we can get the fuck outta here." Not exactly an iron-clad argument, but it seems to do the trick.

"Okay," Sam agrees after a pause. "But just- just wait a minute." Dean turns, eyes following Sam's trek back across the room. He kneels beside the forgotten duffle bag and starts digging through it.

"Dude, bad time to change your tampon," he snaps testily. Didn't Sam just say they didn't have time to dick around?

"Shut up," Sam says, continuing his search. "If we're going to be reckless, let's at least be smart about it." His face is pinched in anxiety as he looks up, his lips pressed thinly together and the corners of his mouth turned down. He produces the half-empty flask of salt from the bag and holds it up.

_Oh, duh._

"Killjoy," Dean mutters, a little embarrassed at not thinking of that himself, and looks for something to bar the door. He finds a metal rod on one of the tables. He doesn't know what the hell it's for (Sam probably does, the nerd.), but it'll do. He jams it through the handles as Sam salts the door. It's another flimsy barricade, but it should give them the time they need to check the room out.

"Get her, would you?" Dean says, nodding to the prone woman still sprawled on the floor as he collects the duffle bag.

"Fine." Sam glowers as he gingerly pulls the unconscious woman up. He grunts in effort and staggers under the added weight. Dean frowns, she's not _that_ heavy. Maybe Sam's head injury is worse than he's letting on. He shoves the thought aside though, they don't have much time.

He walks back over to the makeshift bridge and hesitates. Cas had once mentioned using Meg's meat suit as a bridge over holy fire, he hopes that inorganic things work too. Here goes nothing.

Nothing happens as he steps through the door, none of the sense of loss or gut-wrenching despair he imagines he'd feel at the loss of the remnant of his friend. He's not an expert on the subject, but he's confident the bridge worked. The throbbing in his side is still there and he can feel a strange warmth start to pool in his stomach. He starts to vaguely worry about internal bleeding, but banishes the thought. He can worry about that later.

Dean looks down as he finally steps onto the dirty, cracked floor. There's a thin layer of black, sooty ash covering most of the ground. He's struck with a sudden staggering sensation of _wrongness_ , like grave atrocities have happened here. If his dreams are anything to go by, then they probably have.

The ground around the suspended figure is mostly clear, as if their aura wards off whatever unnatural presence is in the atmosphere. The only things marring the ground below the figure are a few blood stains and numerous strange, dark smudges scattered like fallen leaves.

Then something catches his eye.

Dean watches with morbid fascination as a small shimmering shadow suddenly manifests from somewhere over the figure's left shoulder and drifts down to the floor. There's a flare of light as it touches down and the linoleum sizzles at the contact; another smudge is added to the mosaic of dark marks. Bending down slighting and looking closer, he discovers that they're actually char marks, burned into the linoleum. They look almost like...

Feathers.

_Oh God._

His throat tightens and it becomes hard to breath, the air too-thick with trepidation to take in. An impossible thought takes root in his mind, budding into a compact pod of idea and emotion he desperately doesn't want to let in but _wants to believe_.

_I went on a little fishing trip in Kansas._

Kansas.

Why does _everything_ have to happen in _Kansas_? _Fuck_ Kansas. Fuck their lives. Fuck idiot angels with martyr complexes. Fuck Dorthy and fuck her little dog too. Fuck it _all_.

The terrible, _wonderful_ thought begins to blossom, petals of pain and grief and relief and hope, Goddamn disgusting _hope_ , slowly growing and spreading. The warding, the sigils, the fire, it all isn't just to keep prying eyes _out_.

"It's to keep someone _in_ ," he hears his own breathy voice say aloud; he's startled by how frail it sounds.

"What?" Sam asks distractedly while using the table to bar the door, having set down the woman a safe distance from the flames. Dean can see the hair on the back of his head is wet with blood from his injury. He should keep an eye on that.

"The warding isn't just to keep Skynet out, it's to keep someone _in_ ," he says shakily. The thought finally blooms, springing forth in all its horrific glory and- _holy shit_ -

This had better fucking be real.

Because he's already starting to believe it is.

He walks around to stand in front of the figure. The man's wearing tattered, dirty, bloody black pants and no shoes. His face is filthy, covered in blood and soot. The man's wrists are bruised and raw, probably from struggling, and match the wicked-looking marks around his waist. The angry burns and cauterized wounds covering the man's chest are coated in the fragrant substance from his dreams. Dean realizes now that it's holy oil and a dark, angry emotion settles in his chest. Every ugly bruise, every raw patch of skin, every burn and cut fuels the feeling until it's a raging fucking fury of violence incarnate.

He watches as the battered chest rises and falls in a steady, slow rhythm; muscles expand and contract, pulling at the partially-closed, inflamed wounds. His eyes trail up, counting each rib, to the man's shadowed face. His eyes are closed and his head is down, chin resting against chest in unconsciousness.

Or maybe not. It's then that Dean notices the tension in the man's shoulders. Sam, finally having jammed the table sufficiently against the door and miraculously not getting burned in the process, comes over to get a look for himself.

"Is this the guy?" his brother asks, leaning forward slightly to get a closer look.

"I know you're awake," Dean says gruffly, addressing the man instead of answering. He tries to rein in his anger as he stares intently at the dark crown of matted hair. The man huffs out a dejected-sounding breath of air.

"Haven't you tired of this?" a hoarse voice grinds out. "It won't work again." And Dean has no clue what he's talking about, but he doesn't care because- _Oh God_ \- he stopped listening after the first word.

The sound of the man's voice sucks all the angry right out of Dean. It leaves him feeling dizzy and worn and so _damn hopeful that it hurts_. It can't be. He barely hears his brother take in a sharp, shallow breath beside him over the sound of his own heart hammering. It just _can't be_.

The man has his eyes screwed tightly shut, but Dean recognizes the plains of his face under the filth.

"Cas?" he croaks out the question before he can stop himself.

The man sighs. "You do not even sound like him," he points out, sounding annoyed now. Dean can't help but give a weak chuckle at that.

"Yeah, well, it's been a rough day," he offers as an apology. Beside him Sam is silently pulling out the holy water and looking at him for some kind of permission. Dean numbly nods in consent.

The cold water clearly surprises the man as it splashes on his chest. His eyes fly open, still the brilliant blue that Dean remembers. Beyond that, nothing happens.

"I'm not the demon here," the man points out, glaring at the floor. "This charade is without purport." And dammit if Dean doesn't agree with him, but he still hesitates when he pulls out the flask of borax. He's wholeheartedly convinced that it's the idiot now and he doesn't think he can handle any more disappointment at this point.

_Sack up, man,_ he chastises himself before flicking some on the man's chest.

Nothing.

"You're not a snake either." The relieved grin that splits his face is almost painful. Sam pulls out his silver knife and makes a small cut on the man's wrist, swiping through the bonds there in the same motion when the blade doesn't cause a reaction.

"Or a shifter, or a revenant." Sam's grinning now too. The angel's (It's safe to call him that now, because there's no way it isn't the moron.) arm falls to his side when Sam releases it. And as he moves to the other arm _Castiel_ finally looks up, his blue eyes wide and bewildered; he seeks out Dean's face and stares long and hard, looking for something...

He finds it.

The tension leaves his shoulders and he sags forward.

"Dean..." Cas's usually rough voice sounds quiet and incredibly fatigued. His eyes slide to the side, taking in Sam standing there before dropping to the floor. "Sam..."

"Hey, Cas."

"I thought..." The angel's voice sounds strained. "They told me... the leviathans..."

"That we were fish food?"

"Yes," the angel admits hoarsely, the edges of his mouth tugging down subtly and his adam's apple bobbing in a swallow. He slips to the floor when Sam cuts the bonds at his waist. His knees buckle but Sam and Dean are there, each supporting a side, holding him up.

"Hey, what's rule number 1, man? Demons lie."

"Yes, of course. But-"

"But nothing. It'll take more than a few big-mouth mooks to gank us. We're fine," Dean says dismissively, shifting his weight and pulling Cas's arm over his shoulders. Sam mimics his gesture with the angel's other arm.

"Dean." Cas's small frown turns thoughtful and he narrows his eyes, looking him up and down. "You're hot."

_...What?_

Dean flounders for a second, choosing to completely ignore the weird lurch his heart gives at the words. He'd normally be all over that with some sort of douchey, witty retort, but it's so out of the fucking blue and Cas- _God_ , it's really _Cas_ \- looks so damn serious that he just blinks, baffled. What the fuck should he say? Does Cas have a head injury? Or maybe they've doped him up? Oh God, this isn't hippie Cas, is it? No, he sounded normal, normal for a nerd angel anyway, just a minute ago. The look Sam's got on his face is amusing at least. It reminds Dean of the time he put half a bottle of lemon juice in his beer.

"I- uh, gee Cas... thanks?" he offers lamely.

"Why are you thanking me?" Cas asks, brow furrowing and sounding vaguely confused.

"I- you- you said-" he stammers then decides to just give the fuck up. And now his little bitch of a brother looks like he's about to start _laughing_.

"You have a fever," the angel finally clarifies.

_Ooooh..._

"What?!" Sam exclaims, all humor gone. He grabs the back of Dean's neck with his free hand. Cas is right, Sam fingers feel like ice.

"You could have friggin' said that to begin with!" Dean cries in frustration. If his cheeks are flushed, it's totally because of the elevation in temperature. That's his story and he's sticking to it, dammit.

"I don't understand. Is that not what I said?" Cas asks, still looking puzzled. "Does that phrase have another meaning?"

_Yeah, Dean. Why are you so upset?_

"You're burning up," Sam hisses, saving Dean from answering either question.

"Still feel fine." Dean shrugs off Sam's bitchfaced glare. It's not exactly true, the warmth has spread to his extremities and he's beginning to feel uncomfortable, the familiar soreness that accompanies a fever settling in. But he hasn't grown any extra teeth or spikes, so he's happy for now. Cas opens his mouth to ask a question, but Dean cuts him off. "We need to get out of here, like, yesterday."

"I'm afraid time travel is out of the question," Cas supplies and Dean is so fucking happy to hear the dorky, clueless statement, that he doesn't even bother to correct the angel. He just grins as they make their way back to the prone figure of the woman on the floor.

"Your DeLorean's all out of plutonium again, huh?"

Cas scrunches up his face in that familiar, adorable, constipated look as he tries to process the question. And Dean is too damn happy (and maybe a little loopy) to care that he probably just called _Cas adorable_.

"These wards cut me completely off from the Host. The effect is essentially the same as when I was cast out. And I have... drained my batteries... significantly, repairing myself."

" _Repairing yourself_? You mean you looked _worse_?" Sam asks in disbelief.

"Yes," Cas replies simply and doesn't elaborate. Dean begins to get a sinking feeling...

_I get to punish the children when they misbehave._

Meg had been one of Alstair's star pupils. If she had been allowed near Cas...

_God, please no._

"She is unharmed," Cas's relief-tinged voice draws him out of his thoughts. He's looking intently at the woman on the floor.

"You know her?" Dean asks, watching Cas's features tighten; the angel seems hesitant to reply.

"She is a vessel," he answers shortly. His jaw clenches and Dean's sinking feeling plunges.

_That's guarded information._

_Fuck._

"Cas," he says carefully. "Look at me." The angel continues to stare at the unconscious woman. It frustrates the hell out of Dean.

And some small part of him rejoices at that.

_Dude, so not the time for this!_

"Look at me, dammit," he says more forcefully and grabs the angel by the chin, forcing him to look up. Shame and pain and grief crash into him as Cas finally meets his eye. He stares back mutely. What can he say? He knows from experience that there is really nothing he can say to make the feeling go away, the horrible, heavy knowledge that you're responsible for the torture, whether directly or indirectly, of another person. Cas, himself, has tortured before, Dean knows. But this isn't the same. This isn't torturing a monster for information, for a cause. This is another person suffering because you yourself cave, give in, aren't _strong enough_ , and Dean understands that only too fucking well.

He settles for clapping the angel firmly on the neck and nodding, hoping that it communicates his understanding and silent support.

"How touching," a haggard, high, fucking _annoying_ voice comments from behind him. Cas stiffens, eyes widening and mouth pulling tight as his gaze focuses over Dean's shoulder. As he turns, Dean sees Sam shove his hand in his pocket.

"I see you found my little angelfish." Meg grins inhumanely; the expression contorts the tattered muscles in the ruined throat of her meat suit.

"You _bitch_. I will end you." Dean feels the rage from earlier pour fourth and takes a step toward the demon, but Cas's arm tightening around his shoulders stops him.

"Let them go," Cas demands from his left. "They have nothing to do with this." He sounds way more like his bad-ass Angel of the Lord self now, his voice still hoarse but full of divine authority. Dean glances at him out of the corner of his eye.

"Cas..." he says in warning. "Stop trying to throw yourself under the damn bus." The son of a bitch had better not do anything stupid. Again.

"We're not leaving you here, man," Sam reiterates his point.

"Aww, does Clarence want more _alone time_ with little old me?" Meg asks, reaching up to twirl a bloody finger through her hair. "We had such _fun_ , you and I, didn't we?" She winks and it makes Dean's stomach churn.

Cas doesn't respond, but the utter hatred Dean sees on his face is far more powerful than any glare or insult he's seen the angel direct at a demon before. It speaks volumes about how much 'fun' they've had.

This bitch is going to die.

"Such good times." As Meg says the words, she begins to pace like a lion behind an invisible wall, dragging her heels through the ash on the floor. The bloody, broken body of Susan the secretary blurs and phases out, twisting like wisps of smoke and suddenly another person is standing before them and Dean feels even more disgusted with the whole situation.

A perfect Dean doppelganger stands in front of them.

"Pretty sure that's copyright infringement, right there," Sam comments.

"You like? Learned a few new tricks when Daddy came to visit." His voice sounds cruel and guttural as it springs from Meg's lips.

Dean rolls his eyes. "Hate to break it to you, but bootlegging us isn't exactly new. Haven't you watched the news lately? The scaly dicks beat you to it."

Bootleg Dean shrugs. "Oh, I'm sure I'll find someway to make this entertaining anyway." Her venomous green eyes shine with promise as Meg lifts her hand.

A low howl tears through the air, a horribly familiar sound that Dean had been hoping he'd never hear again.

Jesus Christ, this is literally the day from Hell.

It kind of surprises him when _Meg_ looks disturbed by the sound as well. She whirls around and faces the doors behind her. "That limey _bastard_."

"Was that-?" Sam asks cautiously, hand still in his pocket.

"A hellhound," the angel deadpans from between them.

"Sam..."

"On it," he agrees. Dean wraps his arm a little tighter around Cas and shifts his weight as Sam ducks out from underneath the angel's arm and pulls out the small leather pouch while Meg is distracted.

The younger Winchester makes a helpless noise of surprise as it flies out of his hand and slides across the sooty floor, seemingly of its own accord, leaving a streak of faded yellow in its wake.

"What's this, a party? Let me guess: my invitation's in the mail."

Shit.

Meg backpedals, stepping away from where the Douche-bag of Hell has just appeared in front of her.

"Crowley, what-"

"Am I doing here? Funny, I could ask the same thing about Tweedledee and Tweedledum over there." Crowley shoves his hands in the pockets of his black overcoat and nods in their direction. "What part of low profile _DIDN'T YOU UNDERSTAND_?"

"I'm handling it."

"Really? Because it looked more like you were _LETTING THEM ESCAPE_ ," he shouts. The demon sighs and rolls his eyes. "And take that off, you look bloody ridiculous."

"Hey-" Dean begins to protest, but a shove to the shoulder brings him to his senses.

" _Shut up_ ," Sam mouths.

The facade evaporates, leaving the battered secretary in its wake. The corner of Crowley's frown pulls up in disgust. "On second thought..."

"Bite me," Meg snarls.

"Seems someone beat me to it, love."

" _Leave_ ," she fumes."This is _my_ fun-house, remember? We had a deal!"

"Out of the question, I'm afraid. You broke the rules. I told you: no having boys over while I'm at work."

Unable to apparently control herself any longer, Meg shrieks in fury and raises her hand. Crowley is quicker though, he flicks his wrist and she vanishes. Good riddance.

"There goes that honeymoon," he mutters, gaze lingering on the spot where she'd been standing.

"Trouble in paradise?"

"You don't know the half of it." Crowley drags his eyes back to the trio, pausing briefly at the unconscious woman on the floor a few feet behind them.

"I see you've met my house guests," the King of Hell observes. "Planning to leave without saying goodbye, Castiel? And after all I've done to make your stay more comfortable," he tsks, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Here, let me return the favor." Dean grits his teeth. He takes a step forward, but Cas's grip on his shoulder stops him from charging the troll.

Crowley sighs. "You know, saying I'd leave you alone didn't mean I'd let you just waltz into my lab and kidnap prisoners."

"You weren't leaving us alone because you wanted us to kill those dicks, you just didn't want us to find out what you were up to," Sam states, narrowing his eyes.

"Oh no, don't get me wrong. I still want you two to play pest control. Having you out of my hair was an added bonus, though. As for _him_ -" He unfolds his arms and points at Cas, glaring. "He owes me. _No one_ screws the King of Hell out of a deal AND GETS AWAY WITH IT." His voice raises into a shout. Crowley pauses, taking a deep breath, his nostrils flaring in agitation.

"I don't suppose you'd be up for just leaving that holy table scrap here, would you?" he asks more calmly, raising his eyebrows. The bastard actually looks hopeful.

"Sorry to burst your bubble, but we ain't leaving without him," Dean growls. He feels stiflingly warm all over now and his eyelids feel heavy. His side feels like he's been stung by a whole damn beehive and he's starting to feel queasy.

"I figured as much," the demon confesses. "So the question is, what are we going to do about this? I can't just let you take him." The doors behind him burst open and two hellhounds are briefly silhouetted by flames as they jump into the room. Paw prints appear in the ash on the floor as they begin to advance.

A cloud of soot and dust is stirred up as one of the hounds pauses at the hex bag on the floor, sniffing. Suddenly the bag is lifted into the air; it shakes back and forth, gripped in invisible jaws. Then the tattered bag flies sideways and thuds against the wall, falling...

Directly into the holy fire.

Dean could kiss the stupid mutt.

Okay, maybe not. But he'd definitely like to buy it a bag of satanic snausages.

Crowley stares at the spot where the bag disappeared, lips parted in dumbfoundment.

"Bad dog."

After a moment he looks back up at them, pointing to the flames. "What exactly is that supposed to summon, if you don't mind me asking?"

"We honestly don't know," Sam admits biting back a smile.

"You lot get your jollies going around using calling rites without even knowing what they summon?" The demon looks perplexed. "How are you imbeciles still _alive_? How did you find this place, for that matter?" He frowns.

"They had their hands held the whole way, of course," a lightly accented voice answers, sounding put out.

The look on Crowley's face would be funny, except Dean knows that he's wearing one exactly like it. He feels Cas stand up a little straighter and go rigid at his side and Sam is definitely not smiling anymore.

"My, my, what _has_ been going on in here?" Death wrinkles his nose like he's just noticed a bad smell. "Soul destruction? You've been a naughty little dust mote, now haven't you?" He raises an eyebrow at Crowley.

"Wasn't intended, I assure you." The King of Hell fidgets under the inspection, taking a step back. "Have to crack a few eggs to make progress, you know."

"None of my business." Death waves a dismissive hand and shrugs. "I'm only here because I owe a pigeon a favor." He snaps his fingers and there's a cool displacement of air and the sound of glass shattering. The flames vanish, leaving the room instantly much cooler. Dean suppresses a shiver.

"Thanks, Mort," someone suddenly says to his right. Dean practically jumps out of his skin as the brunette angel appears next to him. Poor Cas looks like he's about to faint. Dean doesn't blame him.

" _Mort?_ " Sam asks him silently, raising an eyebrow. Dean shrugs back, wide-eyed, and shakes his head slightly. At this point he's afraid if he breaths wrong the friggin' Easter Bunny might show up and nuke them all.

"You three." The being as old as God himself turns his gaze on them. Dean hold his breath. "A pleasure, as always," Death remarks, voice laced with sarcasm. His ancient eyes linger on them for a moment before drifting to the newest arrival.

"We're even." The reaper points a boney finger at the archangel and disappears. Gabriel immediately turns and pins them with a sharp look.

"Castiel," he says sternly, reaching out and slamming his hand against the other angel's chest. Cas staggers and Dean's knees ache with the strain of helping to keep him upright.

"What the hell?" Sam asks, reaching out to help him steady the angel.

"Thank you," Cas wheezes, righting himself and looking no worse for wear. Dean freezes mid-step, more than a little confused. It's then that he realizes he's unconsciously put himself between the two angels. "He branded by ribs," Cas states, rubbing his chest.

"Hey, lil' bro," Gabriel greets casually. "Glad to see you're still kickin'."

"Gabriel," Cas says calmly, apparently already over his initial shock of seeing his supposedly dead brother. Then again, he's probably just as relieved as Dean is that Death didn't tear them a new one. Compared to facing that guy, having your dead archangel brother appear out of thin air doesn't seem like such a big deal. "I am happy to see you are... kicking... as well."

A thought strikes Dean.

"You knew he was alive?" he demands incredulously.

"Had a hunch," the archangel admits.

"But didn't want to share?"

"Didn't want to get your hopes up." His face holds an odd, soft expression. And Dean feels less angry with the bastard, but he isn't _grateful_. Maybe. Dammit.

"You're welcome," Gabriel says knowingly, eying him for a minute before turning to Cas.

"Some of us won't be as happy to see Dr. Spock here as I am," Gabriel says looking down at his hand in disgust. "Is this holy oil?" he asks, a dark expression passing over his face. The lights overhead give a suspicious flicker. When he looks up again, his eyes are drawn to something over Cas's left shoulder.

The former trickster's face twists in anger and he hisses out a furious breath. One of the lights explodes in a shower of sparks.

"What the fuck did they _do_ -"

"Now's not the time for this conversation," Cas cuts him off roughly, his gaze returns to Dean, eyes narrowing. He shifts against Dean, wrapping his arm more securely around his shoulders and squeezing. The elder Winchester feels the arm shaking against him and he begins to worry with a vengeance about whatever Gabriel is seeing that they can't.

But, no, wait...

_Dammit._

_Dean_ is the one that's shaking; Cas is trying to support _him_! His jaw clenches and he looks away, turning his eyes back to the demon in the room as he speaks.

"Hate to break up the family reunion, but we've still got a problem here," Crowley reminds them, shifting his weight. "I'm afraid I can't just let your brother flap out of here, alive or otherwise."

Gabriel raises an eyebrow and straightens his shoulders.

The ground quakes.

"Bollocks," Crowley mutters. "Right," he says, smiling what Dean likes to call an _oh fuck me_ smile. "Think I left the oven on. If you'll excuse me." And he's gone, taking his pets with him. Dean exhales a breath of relief.

"Thanks," he murmurs.

Gabriel just continues to stare at the spot where Crowley had been standing. "I should have killed him," he mutters, clenching his fist.

"Later," Sam promises. "I'll help," he offers, looking from Cas to Dean with a tight expression on his face. "Can you get us out of here?" he asks, eyes darting to the doors. Gabriel looks back at them.

"Buckle up." He smirks and the world spins away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we have it! Cas has finally joined the party. Geez, that was a long set up.
> 
> Thank you for reading! ❤


	7. A Little Shindig

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Even though she's expecting_ something _to happen, the group of people that materializes in the living room still scares the shit out of her._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You are all amazingly awesome! Thank you again for all your comments, kudos, bookmarks, and subscribes❣

When Sheriff Jody Mills offered Bobby Singer her parent's old house in Lake Preston, South Dakota as a new base camp, she'd been expecting a number of weird things to happen.

But a supposedly dead archangel showing up and demanding that they demon poof the house had not been one of them.

Yet it had happened. Two hours ago.

After the guy had convinced Bobby that he was indeed Gabriel (Yes, _that_ Gabriel!), which she might add had taken just about everything except the kitchen sink, paranoid bastard that the old hunter is, he'd vanished again with wink and a promise that he'd 'be home before curfew'.

So they'd ended up spending an hour and a half painting devils traps and salting _every_ nook and cranny. And now she's sitting in the living room winding down with a cup of tea and a book while Bobby finishes the last couple windows in the basement and they wait for the angel to come back.

Even though she's expecting _something_ to happen, the group of people that materializes in the living room still scares the shit out of her.

The archangel is there, along with Bobby's two boys, and a guy she doesn't recognize that looks kind of like a half-naked, beat-up homeless man. Oh, and a _hopefully just unconscious_ woman that she just noticed lying on the floor next to the fireplace. She realizes that she probably looks like an idiot just sitting there and staring, slack-jawed.

But hey, can you blame her?

The angel wastes no time in magicking a knife out of nowhere and making a swift cut across his forearm. Then he starts... finger painting on the bay window with his own blood.

What the hell has she gotten herself into?

She apparently had made some sort of noise in her surprise, because now there are hurried footsteps thumping up from the basement and suddenly Bobby is bursting into the room, shotgun in hand.

"Is that bastard back?" he exclaims as his eyes dart around the room. He rears back as if he's been struck when he spots their unexpected guests, mouth hanging agape in shock. Ha. At least Jody isn't the only one. "What the holy hell?" he stammers, lowering the muzzle of the shotgun.

"They followed me home," Gabriel explains, not pausing in his- well, whatever the hell he's doing. He jerks his head back in the direction of the strange group he'd arrived with. "Can we keep 'em?"

" _What_ -"

"Help," the homeless man says all of a sudden in a voice that sounds like he's been smoking two packs a day for longer than he should have been alive. That's when she notices that Dean looks _terrible_ ; the kid looks dead on his feet. The guy is practically holding him up. Bobby had mentioned that he hadn't been doing well lately. But this- this goes _way_ beyond 'unwell' or 'under the weather'.

Sam swears and grabs his brother from the other side, helping the filthy man ease him into her father's old brown armchair. He squats down and reaches to move the hand Dean has clutched over his stomach.

"Cas?" Bobby breaths out, staring at the man. Cas? The name sounds familiar. Jody mentally sifts through the conversations she and Bobby have had in the past few weeks and comes up with an answer.

Cas. Castiel. The angel friend that dragged Dean out of Hell and helped the boys stop the Apocalypse. And then, most recently, went bat-shit crazy trying to win a war in Heaven and exploded in a lake with those leviathan things. That Cas.

Another resurrected angel. And here she'd been thinking that one was impossible enough.

"Hello, Bobby," he greets distractedly, leaning heavily on the arm of the chair for support. She can see under the dirt and grim, getting a closer look, that he's covered in burns and lacerations. How the hell is he _standing_? Oh, angel, right. He's focused intently on watching as Sam peels back his brother's shirt. There's a small amount of blood drying and sticking the cloth to the pale skin of Dean's abdomen.

"What's wrong with him?" Bobby asks, his worry for his surrogate son clearly overpowering his shock. He sets his shotgun down next to the door and makes his way across the room.

"Dizzy," Dean hisses out; his voice sounds shaky, like it's taking considerable effort to speak. Yeah, he's definitely not doing too hot. His eyes are shut and his head is back, pillowed against the back of the chair, his hair damp with sweat and his cheeks flushed with fever. His breathing is slightly too quick to be normal and his jaw quivers every now and again, like he's trying not to chatter his teeth.

" _Fuck_ ," he groans, abruptly clamping his hand over his mouth and leaning forward. Jody springs into action and grabs the waste basket next to the couch, hurriedly shoving it in Sam's waiting hand. They make it in time, and Dean is sick all over the plastic container instead of the floor.

"Is that _blood_?" She gapes in horror as the young man vomits up a small amount thick, dark red fluid. He coughs and gags, spitting a couple times in the basket for good measure.

"Tastes like it," Dean confirms in a raspy voice, reaching up to wipe his mouth on his sleeve and leaning back again as Sam sets the basket aside. The younger Winchester isn't looking so well either. His hair is matted with half congealed blood in a few places and there are dark red streaks covering half of his face, already drying and starting to flake off.

"Shit. Gabriel, a little help here?" Sam hollers, head craning around the chair to look at the archangel. The guy's impromptu art project is covering most of the window now; red squiggles that look kind of like crudely-drawn constellations cover the panes.

"Gimme a sec, big boy. Making sure nobody crashes this little shindig," Gabriel calls over his shoulder as he starts working on the only empty piece of glass left. Jody is glad the house is on the edge of town, far from the prying eyes of neighbors. It's dark outside now anyway, but this would have been hard to explain in the morning otherwise. She's already going to have to explain to her brother why there are pentagrams painted over every door and window. It's a good thing neither of them has any intention of selling the place, she has a feeling it's going to be seeing a lot of wear-and-tear in the immediate future.

"Take your time," Dean grinds out. "Not like'm dyin' or anythin'."

"Damn, Dean. Don't even _joke_ -"

"Who's jokin'?"

"What _happened_?" Bobby asks again with more force, settling a hand on Sam's shoulder and peering at a small, angry red scab on Dean's abdomen. Jody can't see very well from over the top of his head, and she's no nurse, mind you, but it doesn't look that bad.

"That his blood? Wound looks days old," Bobby says, fiddling with the bill of his hat, something Jody has noticed he does when he's nervous.

"He got that like- like an _hour_ ago, looked _way_ worse then. Demon got him with some kind of needle," Sam explains in a rush, clearly anxious about the injury. "No clue what was in it, but I was hoping-"

"That I could fix it." Gabriel comes over and squats down next to Sam, examining the area. His hands and arms are miraculously clean and unmarred now. "I can try, but no money back guarantees."

"No," Castiel says suddenly, reaching over and placing a halting hand between Dean and Gabriel. "Did you see what the toxin looked like?" He addresses Sam while leaning back over and checking Dean's pulse.

"I'll do you one better," Sam says and reaches into his pocket, pulling out a glass tube filled with pink goo. Castiel glances up at the vial and the corners of his eyes wrinkle with strain as he looks back down at Dean. His lips press together and pucker slightly as the muscles in his jaw work furiously. He takes a deep breath, nostrils flaring in a gesture Jody recognizes as an effort to remain calm.

"Angelic healing will do no good," he laments hoarsely, his voice suddenly very sad and defeated sounding.

"Whatever it is, it is... immune to us. Exposure to such energies may even accelerate the process." Silence reigns for a moment as everyone else absorbs that information, Dean's ragged breathing the only sound in the room.

"...Missed your nerd angel voice." The elder Winchester breaks the silence, his voice slightly distorted from fever. Castiel's eyes narrow and he reaches up to check the man's temperature.

"I believe you're delirious, Dean," he diagnoses as he pulls open one of Dean's eyes. It's glazed and bloodshot as it swivels up to focus on the angel.

"Still true."

The angel withdraws his hand and rests it on the back of the chair by Dean's head, his face becomes unreadable as he gazes down at the the young man.

"So what is this slime, exactly?" Gabriel asks after an another awkward moment of silence, taking the vial from Sam and examining it. The contents shine iridescent pink and cling to the sides of the glass as he twists the tube in front of his face. It looks almost like nail polish, Jody thinks, but being the only woman in the room she keeps that thought to herself.

"That's whatever Crowley's been up to."

"Crowley?" Bobby interrupts. "You didn't tell me you knuckleheads were pokin' that bear."

Sam clears his throat. "We, uh- we had back up," he offers lamely.

The old hunter's eye twitches. " _Back up_?" he repeats in disbelief. "Well, look how well _that_ went! I _swear_ , I oughta _throttle_ -"

"Easy there, Papa Smurf. I put them up to it." Gabriel raises his hands, one still holding the vial, in surrender. Jody barely catches the look of surprise on Sam's face as the angel steps in on his behalf.

"That just gets you added to the list, _Feathers_ ," Bobby exclaims, voice rising in a telltale way. Okay, time to put a stop to this.

"Knock it off or take it outside," Jody intervenes, putting a hand on the older man's shoulder. "Don't make me use my mom voice."

The old hunter folds his arms over his chest and sets his face in a hard, serious expression, but remains silent. The archangel, on the other hand, looks at her with a slightly amused, perplexed quirk to his mouth and raises an eyebrow.

"Sounds kinky."

Bobby turns bright red. It would be great teasing material for later if Jody didn't feel heat rushing to her cheeks as well.

What the fuck kind of _angel_ is this guy?

"Gabriel," Castiel chastises with a heavy sigh.

"Alright, alright." The archangel crosses his arms over his chest and rolls his shoulders.

There's a beat of silence.

"So he's made some sort of, what- virus?" Sam asks hesitantly, probably testing the waters of the conversation.

"I don't know its intended purpose," Castiel answers flatly. His eyes haven't left Dean, Jody realizes. It's almost sweet. "But I know what it has done. They put the women in my cell when they were finished with the procedure." His face pulls tight in memory.

"And what then?" Sam asks harshly, getting up and towering over Castiel. "They burned from the inside out? Until there's nothing left but _charcoal_?" He grabs the guy's shoulders roughly, shaking him. It seems more like an act of desperation and fear than anger.

"Until it destroys their soul," the angel says quietly, not meeting Sam's eye. And Jody doesn't have to be a hunter to understand what that means. She feels a cold dread settle in her chest. Oh God, Dean...

" _What_?" The younger Winchester freezes, mouth parted and eyes wide in horror. He lets go of the angel as if he's been burned and stumbles back a step, his eyes immediately going to his brother.

"...Friggin' figures," Dean grunts; his shoulders bob in a minute shrug. It sounds like he tries to sigh, but the air catches in his chest and he coughs instead. He weakly reaches up to cover his mouth and when his hand comes away it's flecked with blood.

"That explains a lot," Gabriel says, his voice suddenly soft and serious. "We couldn't find any of those women's souls in Heaven. I asked Mort about it and he hadn't even reaped any of them. Part of the reason he agreed to help, he was curious." And Jody has no idea who this Mort guy is, but if he _reaps souls_ then she's not sure she wants to know.

"Goddammit, you got _Death_ involved in this too?" Bobby pipes up, voice rising again. Yeah, she definitely doesn't need to know any more about this guy. "Who else was there? The damn Easter bunny?" He sounds angry, but she can hear the sheer worry under it. Dean might as well be his own blood and facing the death of your child, pending or past, is an awful, _devastating_ -

_Don't you go there right now, Missy._

Dean makes a sound that's somewhere between a wheezy laugh and a wet cough. "...'n bitch... Meg," he utters, it sounds like he's fighting to stay awake. Bobby looks like he's about to blow a gasket. Jody squeezes his shoulder again and it seems as though he quite possibility literally bites his tongue to keep from tearing the boys a new one right then and there.

Castiel chooses that moment to continue. "The toxin attacks the body first, then eventually moves on to the soul. It destroys it, tears it apart."

"Dean said that Death told him souls can't be broken apart," Sam says uncertainly, still standing tall and intimidating next to the dark-haired angel. Castiel's stormy eyes flicker to Gabriel.

The archangel holds up his hands again, waving them as if warding something off. "Oh, no. You take this one, lil' bro. I've tutored the kiddies enough for today." Castiel looks confused by the statement, but nods and obliges anyway.

"You can't cut off pieces of a soul as you please, that is correct," he begins, dragging his eyes up to look at Sam. Blue meets blue and whatever Sam sees there finally makes him back down. His posture changes, shoulders sagging tiredly as he runs a hand through his hair and grimaces as it inevitably sticks in the tangled, bloody mess. That's going to be a bitch to wash out.

"A soul... though immensely smaller in scale... is like a star, a burning ball of energy. The energy, it's... fluid, constantly ebbing and flowing within, so it is impossible to target a specific portion to remove. Even trying to siphon off an arbitrary amount of its energy is incredibly dangerous." Castiel's eyes slide to Bobby and he just stares for a moment. The old hunter grimaces and reaches up to rub his chest.

"That reminds me, Cassie. I owe you a big bro ass-kicking later," Gabriel chimes in. "After we save your princess, here."

"..er'a princess," Dean mutters tightly, cracking open a glassy eye, then shutting it immediately and groaning. The kid is still hanging on to consciousness apparently. And still trying to make wise-cracks, no less. Jody isn't the only one that takes comfort in that, she notices. Castiel's lip twitches upward and a little of the tension leaves his shoulders as he continues.

"Like a star, a soul can be destroyed, its energy dispersed back into the universe. But unlike the death of a star, it is not a... common occurrence, or even an eventuality. It's a... vile... unnatural thing. Much like the death of an angel," he explains.

"Why would Crowley wanna do something like that?"

"Judging by the conversation we witnessed, destruction of the soul is not his intent. I don't know what he's trying to do." His voice gets deeper and rougher with his frustration. "Two weeks ago, the woman started burning instead of mutating. They used regular woman at first-"

"Virgins, lil' bro," Gabriel says and Castiel's eyebrows knit together thoughtfully.

"Now how do you know that?" The curiosity behind the question makes Jody ask it before she can stop herself.

Gabriel gets a sly look on his face and begins to answer but Sam swiftly cuts him off. "You don't want to know- _believe_ me," he says emphatically. "Just-" He waves his hands at Castiel. "Just keep going. Please."

"They began to... interrogate me about vessels long before this stage. It appears they may have anticipated the need for stronger subjects. They... extracted... two names six days ago."

"The day before the first vessel went missing."

"Yes."

"The first vessel, Kate..." Castiel pauses to swallow after the name, eyes darting around the room before finally settling back on Dean. "Lasted approximately sixteen hours, much longer than any previous girl and her body remained... mostly intact... afterward. The women before her lasted two, maybe three hours at the most and burned to cinders."

"And that's why the cops didn't find any other bodies, there were none to dump." Sam concludes grimly. "Did this happen to her?"

"I can't be sure, she was possessed for much of the time. With the others the demon would abandon the body shortly before death. However, it was... forcefully expelled form her body and she became herself again for many hours before..." he trails off, swallowing again. His hands tighten their grip on the chair. "She was unwell, but able to communicate. We discussed... what had happened to her; she remembered the procedure."

Sam glances at Dean again, his jaw clenches and there's an air of palpable determination about him. "We have a sample of the stuff, there's gotta be something we can do. Any spells that can ID that goo?"

Castiel's eyes narrow in thought. "I'm afraid modern science surpasses the supernatural in that respect. There are many identification rituals... but none come to mind that would be applicable here."

"Then why don't we take the human route?" Sam asks, his voice sounds almost hopeful.

"Hate to break it to you, but I'm no Gil Grissom. We don't exactly have a forensic lab up there." Gabriel points out.

Bobby speaks up at that. "And I'm guessin' that you can't just whip one of those up, right?"

"Doesn't work that way, sorry Gramps."

And then Jody gets an idea.

"My brother runs a private surgical clinic," she suggests. Greg is going to be ticked with her for calling in the middle of the night like this, but oh well. This is more than worth suffering through a few awkward holiday reunions. "I could give him a call. He could probably run a few tests on it. He lives in California, but I doubt that will be a problem." She eyes the brunette angel uncertainly. "Will it?"

"AngelEx, at your service." Gabriel pockets the vial. "Go call him. And I'll need the address." He looks back at his brother. "The brand on your ribs is my own secret recipe, it'll hide you while you recover."

Castiel nods silently.

"Unfortunately you're under house arrest though, for now anyway," Gabriel warns as he moves to leave the room.

The archangel pauses as he passes Sam and frowns, patting the man on the shoulder. Sam blinks in surprise, his face now remarkably clean of blood, and offers a small half-smile. "Thanks," he says softly.

"Anytime, Sammy." Gabriel smiles back and follows Jody into the kitchen to call her brother.

* * *

Sam and Bobby move Dean over to the plush plaid couch to try to make him more comfortable while Gabriel and the sheriff- _Jody_ \- Sam mentally corrects himself, are in the kitchen. By the time they come back out and Jody has announced that she's going with the archangel to meet her brother, Dean has fallen into a feverish sleep. His breathing is still too-quick and shallow and his face is flushed, but other than that he shows no outward signs of illness.

The two disappear and return fifteen minutes later with some grim news. They won't get the test results for at least a day. Which will be too late if Kate's timeline is anything to go by. It frustrates the hell out of Sam to be so close to an answer, something, _anything_ that will help save his brother, only to have it sit beyond his reach.

Jody then volunteers to take the girl they'd rescued to a hospital and Gabriel offers to drop them off on his way to do a few 'errands'. The archangel assures them all that he'll be getting the woman an angelic babysitter while he's gone.

Before they disappear again, Gabriel lets them in on the fact that apparently holy oil is like having cayenne pepper rubbed in a wound for an angel. And that makes Sam cringe because Castiel is absolutely _coated_ in the stuff. The dark-haired angel is not happy with his brother's revelation, insisting that he's fine and that they 'have more pertinent matters to attend to than his personal comfort'.

In the end, Sam watches with fleeting amusement as Bobby practically drags the 'masochistic fool angel' in the direction of the shower, taking an old AC/DC t-shirt and a pair of jeans that Sam found in his brother's duffle (since he's closer to Castiel's size) with him. The former trickster had luckily had the foresight to zap their belongings with them from Rhode Island.

All of this leaves the Winchester brothers as the only occupants of the large living room. Sam sits on the edge of the couch, keeping a close watch on his brother and brooding over their research dead-end.

_Dead. Just like your brother's going to be,_ Lucifer's playful voice drifts into his head.

_Shut up,_ he snaps mentally, reaching to squeeze his scar. He's really not in the mood for his own crazy shit right now.

_Dust in the wind, Sammy,_ the voice sing-songs back.

"I said _Shut Up_ ," he snarls aloud, digging his thumbnail into the calloused skin of his palm. Thankfully no one is around (or conscious in the case of his brother) to hear the outburst.

Or maybe he isn't alone after all; someone clears their throat in the doorway.

Damn.

"Water's runnin', he musta figured it out," Bobby grunts as he reenters the room and sits in the chair Dean had previously been in. Sam nods absently as his gaze settles back on his brother and for a moment he just stares, wondering how things could have become so desperate so fast.

"We'll find something," he hears Bobby say, though whether it's for his benefit or the old hunter's own, he isn't sure.

"Yeah," Sam agrees, trying to sound sincere. Because, dammit, they haven't been through all this just to get Castiel back and lose Dean _now_.

"How's the noggin'?" Bobby asks, beginning to leaf through one of the books he's amassed at the house.

"Fine now," Sam says automatically. Gabriel had been unusually thoughtful, healing him like that.

"You know what I mean, Sam. Lucifer still stoppin' by for tea?" The old hunter flips a page.

"...Sometimes," Sam admits. "But it's been manageable." His surrogate father slides his eyes up to give him a look that says _You so sure 'bout that, boy?_ , before flicking his eyes back down to his book. And that's when Sam realizes he's still got a death grip on his hand. He relaxes the muscles in his fingers slowly and rubs the pad of his thumb over the crescent moon indentation the nail has left behind.

"It's not worse because of...?" Bobby trails off, glancing up in the direction of the doorway.

"Cas? No," Sam assures him. He sighs and runs a hand through his now-clean hair. "I'm not angry with him, you know."

"He busted your grapefruit, Sam-" the old hunter begins to argue.

"I know. _Believe me_ , Bobby, I know. But-" He pauses, looking back down at his brother. "...Remember what Dean said? About blanket apologies? Life's too short," he says, looking up at the old man. And it's cheesy as hell, but it's true. He half expects Dean to wake up and congratulate him on having his period or something stupid like that. In fact, he'd _welcome_ the smart-ass comment right now. Something shrivels in his chest as he realizes that he may never hear another one of his brother's wisecracks, may never fight with him about the music in the car again, or-

_Stop being such a little girl, Sam._ He can almost hear his brother berate him. And even if it isn't really his brother saying it, it still has the intended effect. He stops the angst-riddled train of thought in its tracks and focuses back on reality.

Bobby stares down at the elder Winchester and slowly nods his head, sighing. "Yeah, I hear ya," he finally concedes, going back to his book.

"Speakin' of... how's Dean been doin'?"

Sam feels the urge to laugh, but the sound dies before it makes it out of his throat, its ghost leaving his lips as a harsh sigh. " _He_ says he's fine." He motions to the figure on the couch. "But he hasn't been eating much, been drinking too much, hasn't been sleeping well. Oh, and apparently those dreams were all from _Cas_."

" _What_?" Bobby demands, looking up sharply.

"Yeah, Dean told me that the room we found Cas in was the one he'd been dreaming about. And Gabriel told us that apparently when Cas dragged Dean out of the Pit, he left a piece of his grace in him. My guess is that's what caused the Vulcan mind-meld."

"Well, what the hell would he do that for?" Bobby's eyebrows disappear under the rim of his hat in surprise.

"His soul was touched by darkness when he broke the first seal." They both start at the rough voice. Castiel stands in the doorway, clad in the jeans and t-shirt, his wet hair standing up at odd angles. The sight is almost enough to make Sam laugh. Almost. The clothes are a little too big, the jeans hang a bit low on his hips under the loose t-shirt. Sam makes a mental note to find the angel a belt later.

"Darkness? Hell, everyone's soul is 'touched by darkness' at some point. Part of the humanity package deal," Bobby points out, closing his forgotten book and placing it aside. "What gave you the right to just stuff him full of your mojo?" His voice grows steely with anger.

"This was in the literal sense," Castiel elaborates. "The demonification had already begun. I used a piece of my grace to purify his soul and reverse it." Well that makes sense Sam guesses, why Gabriel couldn't have explained that in the first place annoys him to no end though.

"Why didn't you mention this before?" Sam asks, not as upset about the matter anymore.

"I didn't want to fuel your brother's ridiculous preconceptions that he was some sort of monster that didn't deserve to be saved." The angel perches himself on the arm of the couch next to his brother's head and stares down at him. And now it makes sense, again Gabriel's abnormal compassion surprises him.

"Why didn't you take it back after it'd done its job?" Bobby asks, the question is more subdued; he doesn't sound as upset now either.

"Because he still needed it," Castiel says softly, continuing to gaze down at the man. It's cryptic, a both frustratingly and comfortingly _Castiel_ answer, and it warms Sam's heart for some reason. Glancing at Bobby, he sees a shadow of the fond expression the man gets sometimes when he thinks Sam and Dean aren't looking and he knows he's not the only one that really missed the angel.

* * *

An hour later Dean is still asleep, his chest rising and falling in a stuttering rhythm with each labored breath. He's still feverish, but his temperature is stable and he hasn't vomited since that initial time.

Bobby sits in the armchair he claimed earlier, pouring over a text on souls, and Sam still sits on the edge of the couch, researching on his laptop. Castiel is on the floor next to the couch, bent over a promising tome about Sumerian blood spells. He'd moved down there some time ago even though there's another perfectly good armchair a few feet away. Sam doesn't bother to point that out though because he's guilty of the same thing: neither of them want to be too far away from Dean.

None of them really react when Gabriel and Jody return with the news that the woman is severely dehydrated, but will be fine.

"I did some homework while Jody dotted the T's and crossed the I's at the hospital," Gabriel begins, leaning against the wall next to the window. "Crowley's not dicking around, that lab's already been stripped to its skivvies. And Mort isn't gonna help us with Dean-o," he says with a sigh and a shake of his head.

"Probably watching with a damn bag of popcorn," Sam says bitterly. Of course, he hadn't really expected Death to be willing to help them. There's nothing in this for him and Dean has always been a thorn in his side.

"Probably," Gabriel agrees with a look of distaste. It makes Sam wonder if he and Death had had some kind of argument. "I'll look around upstairs," Gabriel offers as a consolation. "Tear up the whole damn attic if I have to," he mutters with annoyance and disappears. And now Sam is sure there had been an argument and he's really glad he hadn't had to witness it.

Jody joins in on the festivities shortly after that, bringing sandwiches and coffee from the kitchen. The caffeine is welcomed by all, including Castiel much to Sam's astonishment, but the food goes untouched.

Hours pass. They're swiftly running out of time.

A horrible idea begins to lurk in the darker recesses of Sam's mind. An idea so outrageous and disgusting that he refuses to even _think_ about it yet, let alone suggest it.

"That scientist... apparently he was working on some type of stem cell research. Dr. Peter Olson, semi-famous in the field of stem cell related gene therapy, won an award two years ago for his work in 'trans-specie mutation of sharks', " he reads off the screen then rubs his eyes. "So that stuff is some kind of stem cell serum?" he asks, thinking aloud. His mind goes back to the poor woman they'd found in that padded room and he begins to feel sick.

"Sounds like the plot to a bad horror movie," Bobby murmurs as his eyes drift to the figure on the couch. "So Crowley's cookin' up some kind of- what? Demonic super-solider?"

"The mutation causes a violent, unstable reaction in the soul. Whatever was used must have be powerful. There are not many things that can reap that kind of devastation," Castiel says, looking mildly ill himself. "...I think we can rule out sharks," he adds as if it's necessary. Sam bites the inside of his cheek when he realizes that the angel probably thinks it is.

Several minutes pass filled with the clicking of a track pad, the turning of pages, and the sipping of coffee. The idea Sam has been ignoring prods insistently at his consciousness, like some kind of mental Chinese water torture.

Finally, he can't take it anymore.

"This isn't getting us anywhere," he complains in frustration. He stands up, dumping his computer on top of a pile of old books on the coffee table. "We're running out of time." He begins to pace.

"I'm afraid I have nothing better to offer," Castiel says, looking up tiredly. The poor guy looks absolutely ragged. His cuts and burns haven't even begun to heal and he keeps rolling his left shoulder and wincing like it's stiff or injured or something.

"I-" Sam hesitates, finally beginning to consider gruesome thought he'd been fighting with. "I have a _really_ bad idea." He halts his pacing and rubs the back of his neck.

"You do realize," Bobby says carefully. "Your last 'really bad idea' landed you in a hole with two archangels for a year and a half."

"But stopped the apocalypse," he shoots back. Bobby screws up his mouth and glares for a second, but then his shoulders sag in defeat.

"...Fine. Let's here it."

Sam's throat suddenly feels tight and his heart rate picks up. God, he can't believe he's even _suggesting_ this. "What if we," he starts weakly, then pauses to try to swallow passed the lump in his throat. "What if we... kill him."

Silence.

Castiel tilts his head to the side. "Are you suggesting..." he says very slowly, as if talking to a small child. "...That we kill your brother?" The book he's been reading falls to his lap.

Sam's stomach churns. "Yes," he confirms.

Silence.

"You're right," the angel agrees, the corners of his mouth pull as if he's in pain. "That is a terrible idea." And yet Sam is suspicious that Castiel is running the scenario through his head now too.

"You wanna explain that, Einstein? Last I checked we were trying to _save him_ ," Bobby says incredulously.

"We _would_ be saving him, we'd save his _soul_ ," Sam explains. "Would buy us some time," he adds.

"It's... a valid argument," Castiel concedes, looking very uncomfortable, like he's just swallowed something disgusting.

"Your birdbrain isn't considering this too now, is it?"

"Yes," the angel admits. "However, there is a strong possibility that your brother will go to Purgatory in his current condition. That cannot be allowed to happen," he says adamantly.

Sam hadn't thought about that. Well, that isn't completely true. He's tried very hard _not_ to think of the fact that, even now, his brother probably isn't human anymore.

"Then we'll just have to go get him," he decides without much mental debate.

"Are you _insane_? Sam, you're suggesting we pop Purgatory _again_?" Bobby's voice begins to rise.

"Only _if_ he goes there!" Sam begins to raise his voice too.

"Do you honestly think he would _want_ that? For us to risk letting something _else_ out?" Bobby shouts. And Sam knows Dean wouldn't want that, but he's almost beyond caring about it at this point.

"It's his _soul_ , Bobby! HIS _SOUL_!" he shouts, shoving a shaky finger in his brother's direction. His nostrils flare and his chest heaves and his head aches with the stress of it all as he stares the older man down. Bobby stares back, jaw clenched and hands white-knuckled on the armrests of his chair.

A tense silence fills the space between them.

"You both misunderstand my objection," Castiel cuts in, his voice calm, but his face tight with anxiety. "It is not just a matter of retrieving your brother from Purgatory," he addresses Sam. "Because I would not hesitate to go in there and get him if it were that simple." His blue eyes shine fiercely with the certitude of his words. And Sam understands what he isn't saying.

_I'd pull him out or die trying, Sam._

Sam takes a deep breath, scrubbing a hand over his face, and tries to calm down. He notices offhand that Jody is missing from the room; she must have slipped out some time during the argument.

"...What are you gettin' at?" Bobby asks, having apparently regained some of his own composure.

"Dean Winchester is one of the most reviled names in all of Purgatory. Not just because of the countless souls he has sent there, but also because they hold him responsible for the death of The Mother. Millions upon millions of souls, souls of this world's waking nightmares, all with a personal grudge against him. He would know no mercy. They are insatiable, vengeful things. There would be nothing left to save." The angel's voice grows rougher as he explains, and his head bows as his words become strained. "I will not condemn him to that."

_Oh._

And Sam realizes that if there is a living being that knows _anything_ about the desires of the denizens of Purgatory, it would be the angel in front of him. The being that had housed their power and had been driven insane by it.

"Just like you couldn't leave me in the cage," he says without thinking and wants to kick himself when the angel flinches.

"Sam-"

"I'm sorry, Cas. I didn't mean it like that." _I didn't mean to open that can of worms right now,_ he adds mentally.

"I should be the one apologizing-"

"No, Cas. I know. I know that you really were just trying to save me. I know that you _tried_. And if you hadn't I'd- I'd probably still be in there." And even as the words pour out of him he knows they're true. Castiel may not have gotten _all_ of him out, but he had certainly gotten the ball rolling. Who knows if he'd ever have gotten out of there if the angel hadn't _tried_.

Castiel stares at him.

"That doesn't mean the lying was okay though. Pull that again and I'll kick your ass, man," he adds, feeling self-conscious all of a sudden. Bobby snorts and mutters something about idjits, looking back down at his book. Castiel stares at him hard for a moment longer before he blinks and looks back down at his own text. But Sam notices that the corner of his mouth has turned up. He's gotten the message. Good.

He sits back down, reaching for his computer again. Several minutes of silence follow. Sam's frustration begins to mount again. They're back where they started and time is still ticking down-

Castiel suddenly makes a very un-angel like noise of surprise. Sam jumps, almost dropping his computer and whipping his head up.

Dean is clutching a fist full of the angel's shirt.

"Dean?" he asks, taking in the changes in his brother's state. His breathing has reduced to a shallow pant now and his face is contorted in a grimace of pain. He's shaking violently.

Goddammit, what now?

Castiel gently tries to shake free from the grasp, but when Dean doesn't loosen his grip he ends up just twisting around in the shirt and grabbing hold of the man's shoulders. Dean's eyes are moving rapidly behind their lids.

"He's dreaming," the angel states as Bobby comes to hover. Sam sighs in relief. It's just a dream.

That's when Dean's body erupts off the couch, arching his back and gasping for breath. His eyes snap wide open, glassy and unseeing.

Then he starts screaming.

"That ain't no dream," Bobby shouts over the sound.

"No," Castiel admits helplessly as he pushes down on Dean's shoulders, trying to stop him from hurting himself. Sam takes hold of his brother's thrashing legs, helping the angel in his effort to subdue him.

"This shouldn't be happening so soon," the angel says and he sounds so desperate and dammit, Sam hears his voice actually _crack_. His mouth is open, white teeth bared with the effort of holding Dean down and his eyes are wide, caught between panic and terror. Sam's never seen the angel's expression so open, so _lost_.

It scares the shit out of him.

The angel's words finally sink in and he realizes that this is it, he's going to watch his brother's soul just- just _snuff out_ like a fucking _candle_. And, _God_ , he's never heard Dean _scream_ like that before. It tears at his heart and makes him feel numb all over and Goddammit, this just _can't be happening_.

"Gabriel," Castiel suddenly calls and the archangel instantly appears in their midst, immediately springing into action and moving help.

Light begins to rapidly pool in Dean's mouth and eyes and Gabriel freezes above him, transfixed, his fingers hovering just above his forehead. And Sam wants to ask why the hell he's just _standing there_ , wants to yell and rage at the archangel for not doing a _fucking thing_ while his brother writhes on the couch and his fucking soul _burns out_ , but the words never make it out of him. Instead he stares mutely as a small, soft glow pulses to life in Dean's chest and swiftly gets brighter.

"Is that..?" Gabriel asks in bewilderment, eyebrows shooting up.

"Yes," Castiel affirms in a rough whisper with equal surprise.

All Sam can do is watch as the light keeps getting stronger, snaking out from under Dean's shirt in painfully-bright tendrils and licking at his body as it continues to arch and spasm in the throws of agony.

"Cover your eyes," Castiel warns loudly.

Sam helplessly obeys, clamping his eyes shut and throwing his arm over them as the burning white light flares blindingly.

* * *

Dean knows he's asleep, but that doesn't make it feel any less real.

_You have got to be fucking kidding me._

He's standing in a small diner. But that's not what bothers him. It's not the smell of greasy food that wafts over the plastic counter from the kitchen either. Or the cheap photography on the walls. Or the single row of booths lining the ugly green-and-brown wall opposite the counter. What _does_ bother Dean is that he doesn't have to turn around to know that there's an old-fashioned jukebox in the corner behind him. Because he remembers it from the last time he was here. Because this is the diner in Grants Pass.

The one they'd faced Eve in.

The one where he'd killed her.

_Murdered,_ something whispers; a cold breath of air grazes his ear. The hair on the back of his neck stands on end as he twists around, searching...

There's nothing there.

"Hello, Dean," the inevitable voice greets from behind him. He slowly turns back to the counter, and there she is, wearing his mother's face, just like last time.

"You're not real," he replies, glaring and trying his damnedest to will her away. It doesn't work. Figures.

She sighs and leans over the counter. And now he can see right down her shirt. Which is gross because even if they aren't really his mom's boobs, they're still made in her image.

"Not anymore, thanks to you." Her mouth curls in annoyance.

"What can I say? I aim to please." He shrugs, crossing his arms and shifting his weight. But he's totally not fidgeting under the bitch's glare, because dead monsters don't frighten him. Except zombies, the lock-picking bastards. And hellhounds. Do hellhounds count? He's not really sure. But, yeah. Totally not fidgeting.

"Why are you here?" he asks, trying his best to sound exasperated. He's tired and he doesn't want to spend more time in her presence than necessary, even in his subconscious. _Especially_ in his subconscious.

"What? Don't want to spend time with mommy dearest?" She smiles viciously.

"Joan Crawford, you ain't. That chick was actually _scary_. So cut to the chase, bitch."

"You kiss your mother with that mouth?" And before he can tell her what exactly _she_ can kiss, she's suddenly right in front of him and his arms fall to his sides like they're made of friggin' lead. Eve puts her hands on his shoulders and the touch is like pure ice; it permeates the layers of his clothing and chills him to the bone.

"I'm here because of that little supernatural cocktail you shot up," she informs him.

_Oh, Goddammit._

"What?" He can see his breath now. His stomach starts to ache and he feels too-hot against her icy hands.

"That was me." She grins, hands sliding down to his chest, leaving his skin numb wherever they touch. "Well, made from me anyway." She looks gleeful as her hands begin to sink into his chest. It feels like freezing knives and- _dammit_ \- he still can't move. "I'm inside you," she whispers, leaning in close. He fights not to cry out against the pain as her hands sink deeper and the ice spreads through his veins.

"Such a bright soul," she murmurs and- _fuck_ \- it _hurts_ as he feels her hands flexing within him. Her fingers twist and _pull_ at something in his chest and he can't hold back anymore. He screams, screams for help, screams for his brother, screams for _Cas_ , screams for _anyone_. Because- _God_ \- she's killing him, tearing him apart and he doesn't want to die like this, alone and helpless and _so cold_.

_Make it stop. Makeitstop. Makeitstopmakeitstop- ohgodplease- makeitstophelpmehelpmeplease -_

And deep inside him something wakes up.

A warmth springs to life in his chest, pushing against the cold of her hands and radiating comfort and peace and an overwhelming, wonderfully _warm_ \- _so warm_ \- emotion that he doesn't quite recognize. Eve's mouth forms a small 'o' of surprise as she's repelled and a laugh bubbles up from somewhere inside him.

"What's this?" she demands and if he didn't know better he'd almost think she sounds afraid.

"Surprise," he whispers hoarsely. And it is a surprise, for them both. But he doesn't care, doesn't worry, because the warmth builds and fills him, pushing the ice away completely. He looks down and a light is shining there, in his chest between her hands. The light winds up her arms and his gaze travels up, following it.

Eve features begin to shift, her eyes widen in panic.

"No, _stop_!" she cries, her blonde hair melting away, replaced by short black. The ugly mustard-colored waitress uniform stretches and morphs into a familiar tan length of cloth. "This isn't _OVER_!" she shrieks. And It's suddenly her turn to scream as the light grows and her face melts away under its brilliance, reforming into the familiar visage of Castiel. The angel's eyes flare into existence like two sapphires.

The light finally dims, but remains visible, shining out from between the fingers of Cas's hands where they're pressed against his chest, the warmth of it still coursing through him. He stares, utterly confused and relieved, at the angel.

Cas smiles back.

An honest-to-God real, _beautiful_ smile. Dean's never seen the angel look so genuinely happy.

He's a little sad this isn't real.

"Cas?" he asks, unsure.

"Dean." The angel's voice is a low, soft rumble as he leans in. Dean is surprised at the action, but he doesn't pull away, doesn't dare to breathe as he feels the angel's breath ghost on his cheek...

"Wake up," Cas whispers warmly in his ear.

And everything goes black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I present to you the obligatory AC/DC t-shirt. Because I think almost every supernatural fic I've read has had one.
> 
> Oh, and convenient doctor brother is convenient.
> 
> Also, about the warding Gabriel put up... I couldn't mash it in there so we're just going to pretend that the characters all already know that there's a loophole with angel proofing: If they're in your blood, they don't keep you out. That's why Gabe can pop in and out. Makes sense if you think about Cas's sigil use over the years. (I spend way too much time thinking about this stuff.)
> 
> Thanks for reading, hope you liked it! :)


	8. Breakfast at Jody's

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Who the hell lives here?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all again for all of your kudos, comments, bookmarks, and subscribes! ❤
> 
> I've been naughty and pseudo-stolen a line from the Ghostfacers webisode "The Ghostfacers meet Castiel". I just couldn't help it. If you haven't seen it, youtube it some time. Because it's great.
> 
> ...Oh, what? Right now? Okay.
> 
> I'll just... wait here then.

Dean wakes slowly, the warm smell of something baking tickling his nose. For a fleeting moment he travels back in time to his stay in Cicero, to when he'd tired to choke down a slice of an apple-pie life. It's not exactly a happy memory, but it's the last time he'd woken to a smell that wasn't motor oil, musty books, or bad motel coffee.

But then his head begins to ache and his stomach throbs and his throat burns and everything fucking _hurts_ and there's a weird tingling feeling in his chest and he's tossed back into the present with a pressing question.

What the hell had happened to him?

Had he been hit by a truck? Or maybe a train? Because that's what it friggin' feels like. His memory is a jumbled mess, but he reaches out and catches snatches of it... Sam. Gabriel. A lab. Cas-

Holy shit, _Cas_.

Cas is _alive_.

That thought (And okay, maybe the smell of whatever is in the oven, because honestly it smells like pie. And really, come on, _pie_.) motivates him to open his eyes.

He stares up at an unfamiliar ceiling. That's nothing new, living from motel to motel. His eye catches an ornate ceiling fan spinning slowly above him off to the right, its floral motif globes dimmed down low. Okay, probably not a motel then. He turns his head to take in the rest of the room.

The first thing he notices is that he's not alone. Sam is asleep, draped awkwardly over a brown armchair and looking really uncomfortable, his head bent at an angle that he's going to regret when he wakes up and his legs dangling over an arm. A vacant, matching chair sits a few feet away from the first; it's on the opposite side of an empty brick fireplace with some kind of Bob Ross Happy Tree shit painting hanging over it. His brother's laptop sits on the mossy green carpet next to his chair. It's closed, but the little blue light blinking on it indicates it's in sleep mode.

Dean himself is on a well-kept plaid couch. It's pretty comfortable, better than what he's used to anyway. He has no idea how he got here though. Or where here is, for that matter. An ordinary coffee table sits a couple feet away, piled high with shabby looking books. Bobby must be lurking around here somewhere.

The whole place has a very _grandparent_ vibe to it. Not that Dean has ever had the opportunity to spend time at a grandparent's house to know what that's like. Unless you count the time he'd had dinner at the Campbell's house back in 1973. Which he personally doesn't.

It's hazy, but the room seems familiar. He has a very fuzzy memory of sitting in one of those chairs while people gathered around him, talking. Something about souls? He also remembers feeling really fucking _awful_ , though he can't for the life of him remember _why_.

Over his shoulder, he spots a bay window in the far wall to the left of the couch, morning light (he assumes it's morning anyway) filters in through its red sigil painted panes. Angel warding, huh. And a devil's trap over it to boot. Yeah, Bobby's definitely around here somewhere.

He looks back toward the foot of the couch and sees a set of brown french doors sitting ajar leading to what he assumes is the kitchen. He can hear low voices coming from the room beyond, two of them, both familiar. A man and a woman. Bobby, he realizes, and someone else he knows he should know.

It's then that he notices that nature is calling- hell- practically _screaming_ at him and he sits up slowly. Hot _damn_ , he's _sore_. He tries to keep the groaning to a minimum though, mindful of his sleeping brother.

And that's when he discovers the body on the floor next to the couch.

He blinks and frowns down at the figure, taking in the dark head of hair resting on a pillow. They're turned away from him, laying on their stomach, arms buried under the pillow, but Dean still knows exactly who it is.

Cas is sleeping on the floor.

Why is Cas sleeping on the floor?

Hell, why is Cas _sleeping_?

He figures it's probably best not to wake the angel up to ask him. Instead, Dean takes a moment to just indulge in the urge to stare. He can't help the grin that pulls at his lips as he watches the steady rise and fall of the angel's back and shoulders. He just can't _believe_ it; Cas is alive and here and sleeping on the floor.

_Enough gawking. Pull it together, man._

Remembering that he has a pressing matter to attend to, he cautiously swings his legs over and pushes off the couch, carefully dodging body parts, and stands. His head and gut ache in protest and he feels a bit dizzy, but hey, he's up.

As he shakily tiptoes through the doorway next to the window, he takes note of their things piled neatly in the corner. There's a decorative wooden door to his right, probably the front door. And hey, look at that: another devil's trap on the ceiling. Immediately in front of him is the landing of a staircase, the place must have a second story then. He spots a door under the stairs to his left and pads down the carpeted hallway on silent, socked feet. Stepping in, he shuts the door and flips on the lights.

Jackpot.

It's a simple bathroom; beige marble sink, bathtub with a glass shower door, and, of course, a toilet. There are a few decidedly feminine touches though: a thick maroon bathmat that practically _bounces_ under his feet and matching hand towels. And is that _potpourri_ on the counter? Yes, yes it is.

Who the hell lives here?

After relieving himself, Dean glances in the mirror while washing his hands and cringes. He looks about as hot as he feels. His hair is matted down and there's a weird redness rimming his eyes and lips. He scrubs some water over his face and rinses out his mouth, inspecting his face again in the mirror. Not much better, but at least he feels more awake now. He glances down at the rest of him and stops short.

There's blood on his shirt.

 _What the_ -

And he captures a few more memories. The lab, the demon, and ah, shit, the _needle_. That explains why he feels like shit, he guesses. Curiously he lifts the shirt to examine the damage; the material bends and folds awkwardly, stiff with dried blood. His brow furrows when he realizes that the skin underneath is whole, a faint red mark the only trace of the injury. Well that's freaky, he's pretty sure he'd had a gnarly gash there. He drops the cloth with a small shrug, then flips off the lights and opens the door, intent on finding out just what the hell happened.

"Dean."

And the low utterance of his name is the only warning he gets before someone plows into him.

"JESUS CHRIST!" he bellows as the force of the collision causes him to loose his balance. His arms flail and he grabs the door knob with one hand and the counter with the other, but it isn't enough and he topples backward into the darkness of the bathroom with his assailant. They land with a dull _thump_ on the cushioned mat and he hears chairs screech in the kitchen and a thud come from the living room.

Way to keep quiet.

"No, it's me," a low voice informs him from above. "Castiel," the insufferable angel adds. And Dean wants to get angry, but looking up at Cas, silhouetted in the light shining in from the hallway, his blue eyes inches from his own, a completely different, pleasant emotion begins to simmer in his chest.

"I see that," he offers hoarsely. He stares up at the angel, taking in the way the small upward turn of the corners of his mouth cause his lips to part slightly, showing a glimpse of white teeth, and the way his eyes seem to shine in the dark of the room. He looks... well, not quite happy, but pretty damn close.

Cas is braced on his elbows, his arms trapped under Dean. And- _holy shit_ \- he realizes- _Cas is hugging him_. But then he's distracted by the way his heart skips a beat and he suddenly becomes hyper-aware of the position their in, the way their chests slide together as they breathe, the way he's got his knees pulled up, his thighs framing the angel's hips...

Dean licks his lips, suddenly inexplicably nervous and he swears that Cas's pupils dilate minutely as his sharp eyes follow the action, swears that he's leaning in _closer_...

"Dean?" Sam's groggy voice calls from the hallway. And then Cas is shifting, sliding his hands out from under him and rolling back to a squat.

"Are you injured?" the angel asks quietly. It's hard to tell in the low light, but Dean thinks he actually looks embarrassed. "Forgive me, I was... over enthusiastic."

"You think?" Dean tries to make it sound like a joke, but he's really fucking confused about what just happened so he's not sure he pulls it off. "I'm fine," he reassures as he sits up. "Sore as hell though, tell me you got the number of that truck."

The angel frowns. "What truck?" he asks, helping Dean to his feet. The dizziness is back and his head throbs painfully, but he stands with little trouble.

"Dean?" Bobby appears in the doorway, a red-headed woman in tow. Sheriff Mills, Dean realizes. Sam chooses that moment to stumble into view behind him.

"Dean?" his brother repeats blearily, rubbing his neck and squinting.

"What? Can't a guy take a piss in peace?" Dean asks incredulously. Why is everyone so curious about his bathroom habits all of a sudden? He knows he must have been pretty out of it yesterday, but they're all looking at him like he's going to keel over on the spot.

"Goddammit, boy." And now _Bobby_ is hugging him too. "You're gonna give me a heart attack one of these days." His voice sounds strained. And Sheriff Mills's eyes look suspiciously bright. Dean's beginning to get the feeling that maybe he was worse off than he thought.

As soon as the older man lets go, his brother is whirling him around, folding his arms around him and squeezing like he's just come back from the dead. Again.

What the fuck is going on?

"Okay, what's with the Oprah moment?"

"How are you feeling?" Sam asks, pulling back and examining him. And completely ignoring his question.

"Like I got the mother of all hangovers," he answers, reaching up to rub at his temple.

His hand freezes just short of his face as he remembers. The dream. Eve.

_Oh fuck._

Dread settles in his already uneasy stomach as he pushes passed his brother and makes his way back to the pile of their belongings in the living room. There's one way to be certain whether it was just a dream or whether he's completely fucked. Dean hears his name being called several times, but ignores it as he kneels and digs through their ammunition bag, searching out the four leftover shotgun rounds he still keeps there.

"Dean, what are you-"

He barely registers the sharp intakes of breath as he pulls out one of the homemade shells. Dean fishes his switchblade out of his pocket and uses it to pop the top off the cartridge. He shrugs out of the left sleeve of his jacket and dumps its contents on the pale flesh of his underarm.

And it burns like a _motherfucker_.

"Sonuvabitch," he hisses out through the pain, throwing the empty casing to the floor. The stuff didn't even tingle last time and now it feels like it's burning a Goddamn _hole_ in his arm. He stares at it as the implications start to unfurl in his mind, one damning thought in particular standing out.

He's probably not human anymore.

He's startled when a strong, slim hand wraps around his wrist and pulls, yanking him to his feet and dragging him back in the direction of the bathroom. He looks up to find that the hand is attached to a very disgruntled looking angel.

"That was foolish, Dean," Cas growls as he flips back on the bathroom light and shoves Dean's arm under the tap at the sink, turning on the faucet. The cool water immediately starts doing its job, washing the phoenix ash down the drain and revealing the red, blistered skin underneath.

"Yeah, well, I'm not the brightest tool in the shed," he mutters back numbly, staring down at his inflamed forearm.

"That could have killed you, for all we know." The angel's voice is harsh, but his hands are gentle as they grip Dean's arm. He rubs his thumbs in slow circles over the injury, examining it and making sure there are no remnants of the toxic dust left at the same time. He leans in close, absorbed with his efforts, his head bent over Dean's shoulder. Dean can feel Cas's annoyed breath puff through his bangs, tickling his forehead.

There's a shuffle of feet in the hallway.

The angel shifts a little closer and-

"What the hell was-" Bobby's voice begins.

And pain erupts in Dean's shoulder as Cas's chest bumps against it.

" _Fuck_ ," he breathes and wrenches his arm out of the angel's grasp, yanking up the sleeve of his shirt.

The old hand print scar is raw and swollen.

"Jesus," he comments, staring down at it. But before he can say anything really coherent, Cas reaches up and touch the mark.

And that weird tingling in his chest suddenly fucking- _cranks up to eleven_. And it feels like a small explosion goes off. Or he's being struck by lightning. Or like- fuck- he doesn't even know. It doesn't _hurt_ necessarily, but it's really _weird_. Like the pins and needles feeling you get when you try to walk after your foot has fallen asleep, only a million times worse. And _everywhere_. His vision tunnels and his knees go weak and the next thing he knows the world has tipped sideways and he's looking up into worried blue eyes.

"What- what the fuck was _that_?" he asks, his voice sounding weak to his own ears.

"My apologies," Cas murmurs, tone much softer now. His lips purse in a tight frown as he helps Dean right himself. "The grace in you is still active. It reacted to my presence."

Active grace? What the fuck.

And he must have said something out loud because suddenly his brother's tense voice is speaking from behind him.

"Dean, what's the last thing you remember?"

* * *

Five minutes later Dean finds himself seated in a chair next to the large table in the kitchen while Cas hovers, 'examining' him. Bobby and Sam stand in the background, watching with matching expressions of apprehension while _Jody_ \- Bobby, you old dog- busies herself over by the counter.

The room is a continuation of the grandparent theme. The table is large enough to seat ten comfortably, though there are only six chairs at it currently. The cabinets and counter are done in stained wood and give the room a country cottage-esque feel. And the pie cooling on the window sill over the sink does nothing to hinder the stereotype.

Through the sliding glass door on the other side of the table, there's a picturesque view of a lake. Water laps gently at the weathered supports of a small private dock about ten yards from the house. Foliage frames the scene, eluding to the probability that they are a ways away from civilization and makes Dean wonder again just where the hell they are.

"Eve's dead," Bobby states tersely, crossing his arms and leaning against the pale yellow wall. "Right?" He looks pointedly at Cas.

"Bobby," Sam admonishes. He walks over and sits at the opposite side of the table, resting his arms on the wooden surface as he leans forward to rub the back of his neck.

"Well it wouldn't be the first time!" the old hunter reminds them angrily. Cas's eyes flicker in the man's direction and he takes a deep breath, exhaling through his nose and clenching his jaw.

"Eve is dead," the angel assures him evenly. "But I regrettably did not dispose of her corpse myself."

"That's right." Sam looks up, the corner of his mouth pulling up in a disgusted sneer. "Gabe mentioned Crowley had been messing with her body." Dean turns to his brother and raises an eyebrow.

" _Gabe_?" he repeats the nickname in a half-mocking, half-curious tone. "We're calling him _Gabe_ now?" What the hell had happened while he was out?

Sam opens his mouth to respond, pauses, and then snaps it shut again. He looks away, making a sour face and fiddling with his hands. "Shut up," he mutters.

"And you say Eve appeared in your dream and spoke to you?" Cas continues his diagnoses, circling around Dean and checking in his ears for some bizarre reason.

"Yeah, bitch said she was in that pink shit," he replies with distaste. He'd told them about what he remembers from yesterday (Thank God he'd only been out one day.) and the dream, but he'd left the part about dream-Cas showing up out. He doesn't feel it's necessary to share that little tidbit of information, it's not like it's important, after all. In fact, it's down right freaky. Twice now, in the span of hours, he's had- _delusions_ \- about Cas almost _kissing_ him. And that's what they have to have been, fucked up delusions. Because there's no way that whatever had happened in the bathroom was what he _thought_ it was.

Cas chooses that moment to stick his face right in Dean's. The angel peers at him, narrowing his eyes, his voice low and serious as he asks, "Do you want to eat me?"

And all Dean can do is stare, his mouth falling open in surprise. What the fuck? Had the angel read his mind? Can he even really do that? Oh God, he better not have, because that's totally _not_ what Dean had been thinking about _at all_ , but- _shit_ \- now he _is_ thinking about it and _Goddammit_ , Cas better not be thinking that he had been thinking about it, because Dean doesn't know what to think if Cas thinks- is thinking- has been thinking- _fuck_ -

The loud clatter of a plate being dropped from somewhere over by the sink makes him jump and the rambling mess of a though comes screeching to a halt. The angel breaks eye contact as he looks over at the source of the sound and Dean follows his gaze. Jody is standing stock-still by the counter, looking at them, wide-eyed, her lips pressed in a thin line and her cheeks tinged pink with what he assumes is embarrassment.

"Sorry," she says, her voice a little on the high side, even for a chick. Her eyes dart between them as she clears her throat. Then she abruptly turns back to the counter, picks up the plate, and goes about her business.

Cas turns back to him and blinks. He reaches up and frames Dean's face with his hands, tilting his head back and pulling back his upper lip with his thumbs.

"Are you craving flesh, blood, anything?" he asks with a sort of clinical detachment, squinting at Dean's gums.

_Oh._

"No," he snaps, irate with his own stupidity, and bats the angel's hands away. _Of course_ that's what he'd been asking.

"Any odd sensations?" Cas continues his examination, undeterred. He reaches up again, pressing two fingers into either side of Dean's throat and sliding them down to his shoulders, checking for God-only-knows what.

Dean hesitates, unsure of what to say. "There's a weird- uh- _tingling_ in my chest," he admits, because it's probably best to be as truthful as possible. The feeling had returned to 'normal' almost immediately after Cas had stopped touching the mark. The angel pauses, his expression going flat.

"Is it painful?" he asks, his voice suddenly soft again. Dean thinks he looks guilty for some reason.

"'Bout the only thing that isn't, actually," he answers truthfully. His head still hurts, and he feels queasy, and the burn on his arm is starting to itch. Cas looks relieved and nods thoughtfully.

"Is that normal?" Sam asks, accepting a plate of bacon and eggs and a mug of coffee from Jody. "Thanks," he offers her with a sideways glance. She nods and moves back to the counter.

"I don't know," Cas admits, running a tentative hand through his hair, pushing back his wild, still sleep-mussed bangs. "This has never happened before." He seats himself at the table with a small sigh.

"Figures." Bobby rolls his eyes and pushes away from the wall, coming over to sit down.

" _What_ exactly hasn't happened before?" Dean asks as he turns his chair toward the table. "I showed you mine, now you show me yours."

Sam takes a thoughtful sip of his coffee. "That piece of grace Cas left in you, it apparently stopped your soul from burning out," he explains matter-o-factly.

"Oh, is that all?" Dean asks sarcastically. "Wait. Burning out, like, took the wrong acid? Or burning out, like- poof, dust in the wind?"

And for some reason the question seems to _really_ bother the younger Winchester. His face goes tight and he looks away, leaning back as his hands disappear under the table. Dean catches Bobby giving his brother an odd look and he suspects that he missed something while he was out.

He gets the answer to his question nonverbally, in the way that no one will meet his eye and the way that Cas looks like he might be ill.

"Oh, wow." He's not really sure what else to say. Suddenly a week's worth of nightmares come back to him. The women screaming and seizing on the floor of that damn room. Had that happened to him? Had they all had to watch while he screamed like that? Made them feel as helpless as he'd felt?

No, not him, not really.

His eyes drift back over to the angel.

Fuck.

And now they're all sitting here moping like teenage girls whose douchy vampire boyfriends just dumped them in the woods. (Not that Dean necessarily knows what that looks like. Because he's _never_ seen one of those movies. As far as Sam knows.)

And all over the fact that his soul _almost_ got blown to smithereens.

Well that shit isn't going to fly. Not while he's sitting _right here_.

And a ridiculous thought crosses his mind and he can't stop the inappropriate chuckle that escapes. It startles the other three men and they look at him like he's lost his marbles.

He probably has, but he doesn't really care right now.

"Gabriel was right, Cas really did Spock me," he explains with a wry smile. They all just continue to stare. He rolls his eyes and throws up his hands in exaggerated exasperation.

"Okay, you." He points at the angel. Cas's eyes widen marginally at the attention. He looks kind of like a deer caught in headlights. "Well, you have a good excuse," Dean concedes. "But you two." He wags an accusing finger between his brother and father figure. "Seriously. Watch the damn movies. Star Trek III-"

"The Search for Spock. Spock's supposed to be dead and keeps sending psychic Vulcan mind messages to McCoy, right?" Jody offers as she brings over a steaming mug and plate, placing it in front of Bobby. "Careful, it's hot," she murmurs and pats the old hunter on the shoulder as she goes back to the counter again.

Dean stares after her for a moment then whips his head around, leaning toward his surrogate father and in a low voice says, "You realize this means you have to marry her, right?"

The older man chokes on his coffee and looks up at Dean with wide, disbelieving eyes.

A chastising, "Told you it was hot." floats over from the stove and Dean actually laughs this time. Sam looks thoroughly amused as well. Cas, well, the poor guy looks a little confused, but at least he doesn't look like he's going to hurl anymore.

Mission accomplished. Sort of.

"So, you don't remember anything about last night?" Sam asks after a long pause. He leans forward again and grabs his mug, taking another sip of coffee.

"It's hazy after Gabriel showed up."

"Ah."

"I fear we are just going to have to observe you for now." Cas slouches forward and rests his elbows on the table, rolling his left shoulder carefully, like he's testing the muscles.

"So what? I'm on lock down? Not like I'm gonna grow a tail," the elder Winchester says sarcastically, not happy _at all_ with the prospect. Sam and Bobby look decidedly uncomfortable. Cas's mouth twists into a thoughtful frown.

No one answers him.

"...You guys don't actually think I'm gonna grow a _tail_ , do you?" he asks in disgust, mind going back to the Thing they'd found in that asylum. He self-consciously reaches back to check. No, no tail.

"It's... a possibility," Cas admits with unease.

And it's true, Dean realizes. They really have no idea what's going on inside of him. Eve was like the scary version of Noah's Ark in a neat little bitch-shaped package and now that she's got her chocolate in his peanut butter, who knows what kind of Reese's monster Hell will come from it. And again that condemning thought comes back to haunt him.

_Yeah, there's no way you're human anymore._

"Dean," a voice catches his attention, he looks up from where he realizes he's been glaring at the table.

They're all staring at him again. Dammit.

"It could be worse," Sam says carefully. "At least you're not a Jefferson Starship." And it's a pathetic attempt to cheer him up, but Dean appreciates it anyway. His brother does have a point though, he could be a raving, bloodthirsty lunatic right now.

"Yeah, at least there's that," he agrees halfheartedly as he stares at the cup of _tea_ and plate of _toast_ that Jody has just placed in front of him. He looks back up at the woman, raising a _You're joking, right?_ eyebrow.

The look she gives him assures him that, no, she is definitely _not_ joking. "You don't look like you can handle the hard stuff," she says simply. And she's probably right, with the way his stomach is twisting, but he'll be damned if he's going to admit it. He looks to Bobby for help but all he gets is a _You're on your own, son_ shrug. And Sam, the traitorous bastard, just _smiles_ and _suggests he put lemon it in_.

Cas politely refuses the offer of breakfast, saying it isn't necessary. He does accept a cup of coffee though, which Dean finds very interesting.

"I am apparently fond of caffeine," the angel tells him when he asks about it. Which makes Dean smile a little, until he remembers hippie Cas from the future. And how caffeine is a narcotic. He'll have to keep an eye on that. Though _coffee_ is hardly a gateway drug.

Dean gives in and takes a sip of the tea; it has a bitter bite to it that makes his tongue curl unpleasantly. "Got any sugar?" he asks after he swallows. If he's going to drink this hippie swill, then it might as well taste good.

Thankfully Jody is a responsible person and doesn't put up a fuss. "Thanks," he says gratefully as she brings over a small white container and he dumps two heaping spoonfuls in before trying it again. It's sickly sweet now but it eases the ache in his stomach so he drinks it anyway. After his third sip he finally notices the room has gotten quiet. He looks up and finds three pairs of eyes staring at him again.

This is getting friggin' old. Fast.

"What?" he asks, his tone somewhere between bewildered and annoyed.

"How can you drink that?" Bobby asks, wrinkling his nose.

"Not so bad," he replies with a shrug.

"And what about you?" Dean turns his attention to the angel. He looks better than yesterday. Though Dean can still make out the burns peeking out from the collar of one of his old shirts. Purple-yellow bands of bruising wrap around Cas's wrists like bracelets and he keeps rolling his shoulder suspiciously. "You haven't healed," he points out.

Cas shifts in his seat, rubbing his wrist in a very human showing of self-consciousness.

"Gabriel's wards enable me to have a weak connection with the Host without being noticed by my brethren. It will take longer to... recharge, but it's... safer." And that's another problem to sort out. Cas most likely burned a few bridges up there with his stint into Godhood, but neither the angel or his brother have given them any clue about what's waiting for him up there.

"Sleeping helps, then?" Dean asks, deciding not to touch _that_ subject yet.

"Yes."

"What about eating?" He pushing his plate over to the angel.

"Not as much as it will help you," Cas throws back with a hard look, pushing the plate back across the table. Dean glares back and takes a defiant sip of tea.

"So do you remember what happened?" Sam asks, pushing the plate a little closer to Dean, silently agreeing with Cas. Dean looks down at the cooling toast and his stomach twists nauseatingly. He takes another swig of his tea instead. Jody comes over with the kettle and hauls more of the stuff into his cup. Great.

And it might just be his eyes playing tricks, but Dean thinks the lights dim for a second. Huh.

"I remember being overpowered by the leviathans within me," the angel acknowledges gruffly as Dean starts heaping sugar into his cup again. Sam takes the box away after his fourth teaspoon.

"You're like that bug alien in Men In Black. It's disgusting," he says, his tongue peeking out over his bottom teeth in revulsion. "Eat some food."

"Sugar _is_ food."

"Real food, Dean." His brother throws up his hands and gestures at the bothersome plate with frustration. Dean just flips him off and turns his attention back to Cas.

"So you remember being in there with the snakes, then?" He leans forward, setting down his cup and resting his arms on the table. "You didn't happen to overhear how to kill 'em, did you?" he asks, hopeful.

And this time the lights _definitely_ dim as Cas looks down at his hands, now fisted on the table. "No," he says roughly. His face pinches and his jaw clenches in a look that screams self-loathing. "If I had just _listened_..."

And Dean realizes what is happening.

There's no bad guy in the immediate vicinity to be dealt with. No one bleeding, or poisoned, or dying to save. No direct threat on their lives to occupy them...

And it leaves plenty of room for old shit to start bubbling to the surface.

_Fuck that._

"Hey," Dean cuts in, shoving a _knock that shit off_ finger in Cas's direction, though the angel doesn't look up to see it. "You were in a shitty situation. Yeah, you fucked up, but they were the wrong choices for the right reasons." He's not really sure if his words are comforting, he's never been good at this shit. That's what Sam's for.

"Yeah, man. You were trying to stop Raphael from restarting the apocalypse," Sam adds, his voice all calm and consoling like a friggin' professional grief councilor. The look he's giving the angel tells Dean that his brother has figured out what's going on too. Thank God.

" _What_?" Bobby demands sharply.

"Gabriel explained a few things the other day when he showed up," the younger Winchester explains. "Apparently Raphael wanted to spring his brothers from the Cage right after we'd crammed them in there. Cas was trying to stop him."

Bobby pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes, taking a deep breath. " _That's_ what that ruckus was about? Why didn't you tell us?" the old hunter asks the silent angel.

"You'd already sacrificed too much," Cas says, keeping his head bowed. His voice is low and even rougher than usual, taut with restrained emotion.

"Of all the-" Bobby exhales a harsh rush of air and rolls his eyes. "Son, we passed that point a long time ago," he points out. He sounds more exasperated than angry.

"So what happened after that?"

"I remember warning you to run, then... nothing. I believe," Cas hesitates for a moment and rolls his shoulder again. "I don't think I survived," he admits quietly.

A small, heavy silence settles over the room.

Dean's mouth feels dry. "You mean you died? _Again_?"

"I believe so."

"So what, God brought you back again?" Sam asks slowly, eyebrows knitting together in stupefaction.

"I don't have any other explanation." The angel rubs at his bruised wrist and glares at the table. "Though I cannot begin to comprehend why."

"Yeah, well, I've tried to stop asking," Dean sighs. Not that he's complaining. He's- hell- _overjoyed_ with the fact that the Big Guy apparently still wants Cas breathing.

"It does seem like a fruitless endeavor." Cas agrees bitterly. "When I regained consciousness, I was in Crowley's new laboratory. Meg had apparently been investigating the old site, trying uncover what Crowley had been up to there. From what I've gathered, she found me and used me as some sort of bargaining collateral. And she told me... that you..." he trails off, adam's apple dipping down as he swallows. He leans forward and brings up one of his hands, resting his forehead against the flat of his palm.

"That we were dead."

"Yes," the angel responds without looking up.

"Dude, don't start that shit again. I told you, takes more to get rid of us than some Purgatory bottom feeders," Dean reminds him.

The angel drops his arm onto the table. "Like me," he mutters.

"What?"

This time the lights flicker.

Cas looks up then and Dean is startled by the anger there. " _I_ almost killed you, Dean," he all but shouts. Dean hasn't seem him this upset since the angel had kicked his ass in that alley. "I _would_ have. With a snap of my fingers." He stands up, kicking his chair away and glaring down at Dean, blue eyes blazing. "I would have splattered you across that man's living room."

"Cas-"

There's a loud _pop_ as the bulb bursts in the light fixture overhead and the room is plunged into partial darkness.

"And I don't understand why you're so forgiving." He looks positively livid now. "I don't _deserve_ -"

Dean surges to his feet. Because this is complete bullshit and he doesn't want to hear it. And he doesn't know how else to make the guy shut up and listen, so he defaults to his preferred method of dealing with shit.

He punches Cas right in the face.

It isn't like last time; it's not like hitting a frying pan. Probably because Cas is down so much mojo. But it doesn't exactly tickle his knuckles either. And somewhere in the back of his mind he realizes that Gabriel must have _let_ Dean punch him the other day, because that hadn't busted his hand either.

The angel stumbles and falls flat on his ass. He sits there for a second, silently staring at the floor in surprise, before he reaches up and rubs his jaw.

"Now _that_ you deserved," Dean informs him, looking down at the angel and flexing his fingers experimentally. "Because I don't want you to stand there and _lie_ to me. To tell me for one minute that you really _wanted_ to do that. Because I _know_ you didn't." In his peripheral vision he sees that Sam has gotten to his feet, watching with a tense posture, like he's ready to pounce and intervene. Dean holds up his hand, silently signaling his brother. _I've got this._ He receives a small nod in return.

"You can't imagine what it was like," the angel repeats his words from what feels like _ages_ ago in a rough whisper, all traces of his anger gone. "All those souls..."

"And I don't want to," Dean states firmly. "I never want to know what that's like. And I wish to God that you didn't know either. But that doesn't mean anything now." _We're passed it, we made it, we're all here now_ , he tries to convey with his tone.

The angel shakes his head slowly, trying to disagree. "I've wronged you all so greatly, Dean. I _hurt_ -"

"Hell, we've all done horrible shit. To each other, no less," Dean cuts him off, then pauses. "Except for Bobby. Bobby's a Goddamn saint." The old hunter scoffs at that and some of the tension eases out of the room. Dean takes a deep breath.

"But that's part of being family, Cas. Forgiveness. And I got some news for you, Bird-boy. You're still a part of this one, whether you like it or not." And Sam's small smile and the way the side of Bobby's mouth curls up as he sighs confirm Dean's words, even if the angel can't see them.

"So next time you're in trouble," Dean says as he closes the space between them. "Because _God knows_ there will be a next time." He bends down and offers his hand to the angel. "Ask. For. Help."

And Dean realizes that this may not just be about them, about Cas and Dean and Sam and Bobby.

But all he can do is stand there waiting while Cas stares at his hand and pray that it's enough for now, pray that he's gotten through this time and that _he'll_ be enough for now.

Cas looks up at him then and Dean still sees the grief and shame there, on his face. But there's something else now too, something small and fragile and warm.

Hope, Dean realizes with an almost tangible flood of relief.

Cas takes his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if it got sappy there. This doesn't mean that things are all better between the boys, but they have to start somewhere.
> 
> Thanks for reading! :)
> 
> PS: A little part of me wants to be that bathmat.


	9. Gabriel Explains It All Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Dean still doesn't understand what exactly had happened there._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Creative (and probably blasphemous) liberty taken with interpretation of the third chapter of the book of Genesis.
> 
> The verses directly mentioned are Genesis 3:14-15 of the New King James Version. (Was what I had handy.) I cited it in the body of this chapter as well to be safe.
> 
> Thank you all again for your kudo/comment/bookmark/subscribe love! :)

Showers are _awesome_.

Dean's eyes flutter closed as the cascade of blissfully warm water hits his sore muscles. He takes a deep breath; thick, steamy air swirls into his sinuses, easing away the last dull pulses of his headache. He's not sure how long he just stands there, relishing the sensation. The glass shower door is completely fogged over by the time he reaches for the soap.

As he washes away the layers of sweat and blood and grime, he makes an interesting discovery. Many of the scars he'd gotten over the last few years have vanished. All of them have, in fact.

Except for Cas's hand print.

And for some reason he's glad that it's still there.

_We get it, you're happy he's back. Knock it off already._

He tentatively reaches up and runs his hand over the mark. The raised skin is pink and waxy now, already starting to heal. It's tender, but it doesn't hurt like it had when Cas had bumped it earlier. And it certainly isn't reacting like it had when the angel had touched it.

Dean still doesn't understand what exactly had happened there.

The tingling in his chest is a constant presence, though he's already growing accustomed to it, barely notices it's there now unless he thinks about it.

The rest of breakfast had been a relatively quiet affair after the... well- argument doesn't feel like the right word to describe it. After Cas's... emotional _clusterfuck that had broken every Goddamn light bulb that had been on in the house_. That's more like it.

They'd switched to a safer topic: bringing him up to speed on what had happened while he was out. He'd also gleaned that this is apparently Jody's parents old house somewhere on the outskirts of Lake Preston, South Dakota. The sheriff had transferred here shortly after her run-in with the scaly mooks at the hospital in Sioux Falls, since there was a job opening.

Dean suspects that isn't the whole story. In fact, he's pretty damn sure it isn't. But he didn't pry, the woman has skeletons she'd rather keep in her closet, just like everyone else in this house.

While he was being caught up to speed, he'd polished off his tea and, after some coercing from his brother and the angel, had grudgingly managed a piece of toast.

Unfortunately, that hadn't stopped the looks though.

He had been infinitely gratefully when Jody had suggested a shower. The woman is very perceptive; she'd picked up on his distress. He'd been sick of the three other men in the house staring at him like he's going to sprout a second head any minute.

Oh, God, he really hopes that won't happen.

The knowledge sits at the back of his mind, like a constant lurking shadow, the fact that he's not human, that they don't know _what_ the hell he is. At least they know what will... _take care of him_... should the need arise.

_Dude, don't go there right now._

He physically shakes the thought from his head as he reaches down to turn off the water. Pushing back the now-opaque shower door, he steps into the cool air of the bathroom and towels off. Looking down as he's shrugging on his pants, he spots the maroon bathmat lying innocently on the floor.

Dean still doesn't understand what exactly had happened there either.

 _Delusion, remember?_ he reminds himself as he slips on a clean shirt. And that's what he's going to keep telling himself.

Even if he doesn't completely believe it.

_Shut up._

Reprieve over, he rejoins the men in the living room where they're partaking in the favorite Winchester family pass time: research. Bobby and Sam have each claimed an armchair and Cas is slumped on the couch, one foot propped up on the coffee table, engrossed in a familiar looking book. Dean plops down next to him.

"Anything interesting?" he asks conversationally, leaning over to peer at the slim tome. It's the 'instruction manual' they'd found in the dragons' lair, he realizes.

"Yes," Cas replies distractedly. And Dean waits for him to continue, but he just silently turns the page.

"Wanna expand on that?" Dean grouses. He really hates when the guy does that, suspects the angel does it on purpose sometimes even.

And he missed it terribly.

Cas glances at him out of the corner of his eye and flips back a few pages, pointing out a passage and tilting the book more toward him. Dean gives him a flat glare in response. "Dude, you're gonna have to help me out here. _Bobby_ has trouble reading that shit."

"And that's why I gave it to the Babel angelfish," the old hunter butts in without looking up from his own book. He flips a page and exhales loudly. "Took me _days_ to hash out a _page_ of that thing and he's over there plowin' through it like it's damn Dr. Seuss." The older man sounds put out, but it doesn't fool Dean; he can see the way Bobby's mouth is doing that affectionate sideways slant that it does when he's only pretending to be annoyed with them.

Cas looks up at Dean then and his heart gives a particularly loud _thump_ at the expression on the angel's face. He has an eyebrow raised, blue eyes shining with almost-amusement and his lips curling inward like he's trying to stop from smiling. He seems more... at ease... than he's been all morning. At least some of Dean's words from earlier must have gotten through.

Thank God for small miracles.

"It's a detailed narrative of Eve's banishment to Purgatory," Cas explains, looking back down at the book. "I hadn't realized that one existed," he comments in a light, curious tone.

"What's it say?" Sam asks, looking up with an expression Dean would call the epitome of 'eager-beaver'.

"Eve was originally banished to Purgatory after deceiving her human counterpart into partaking of the forbidden fruit of Eden," Cas states, turning back to the page he'd been on. "...Jealousy is not the most... venial of motives," he adds with a shake of his head.

And _that_ has Bobby looking up too. "That was _Eve_?" he asks slowly, voice rising on the last word in incredulity.

"Yes," the angel states simply, glancing up between their surprised faces.

"Hold on," Dean cuts in. "I thought that was a serpent. Or the devil. Or something like that."

"Eve would 'fall under' something like that," Cas points out with an inappropriate use of air quotes. Dean's going to have to sit down and explain that to him one of these days. When it stops being funny.

The angel pauses thoughtfully, then adds, "Lucifer was not yet... infuriated... by humanity."

"So why is that interesting to you? Didn't you see it first hand?" Sam asks, still enthralled with the subject. Dean has always secretly found that fascinating too though, the fact that Cas has _been there_ , _seen_ so much.

Cas purses his lips and flicks his eyes around the room. "I... was not... permitted... to witness those events," he explains hesitantly.

"Pops didn't want the kiddies watching _that_ domestic dispute," a playful voice comments. But Dean is momentarily distracted from Gabriel's arrival by a jolting feeling in his ribcage, like a static shock right behind his sternum. It startles him more than anything; his shoulders jerk involuntarily and he reaches up to rub at his breastbone.

Sam and Bobby both zero in on the action immediately, eying him like a couple of hawks. His brother is even already half out of his seat, he notices.

"Dean?" Cas's gravelly voice asks from his left. A hand grips his shoulder and he almost shakes it off in his annoyance, he isn't used to being treated with such fragility. The open concern he finds on the angel's face when he looks over at him stops him though.

It's kind of... nice.

"Well, that's interesting," the archangel remarks as he perches on the arm of Sam's chair. He places a hand on the younger Winchester's shoulder and pushes gently, apparently encouraging him to sit back down. Sam slides his eyes up to look at the former trickster, a question on his face, but eases back into his seat.

The pressure on Dean's shoulder increases. "He sensed you coming," Cas utters at his side.

The elder Winchester looks between the two. " _That's_ what that was?" And he realizes that the feeling hasn't returned to 'normal' this time, that it's slightly different now, more complex. There's a light pulse threaded through it, like some sort of weak back-beat, and he realizes that it's _Gabriel_ that is causing it.

Whoa.

"Your mojo's still awake in there," Gabriel says to his brother, eying Dean curiously and ignoring the question. He crosses his legs and leans forward to rest his head in one of his hands as he stares. "Huh," he comments after a moment, like he's looking at something he doesn't quite understand.

"What?" Dean demands again, fidgeting a little and running a hand over his chest.

Cas ignores him too. "Yes, I thought it would have gone dormant again by now," he concurs, dropping his hand from Dean's shoulder.

"Which means..." And before Dean can ask a third time, Gabriel disappears.

Dean snaps back on the couch as the archangel reappears right in front of him. " _Whoa, Dude! What the fuck_ -"

And the brunette angel lunges forward and slams the flat of his palm against his chest.

The elder Winchester grunts as he feels the familiar burning sensation of sigils being _carved_ into his ribs. As the feeling fades, he glares up at the archangel. " _Ouch_ ," he gripes sarcastically, tottering his head in emphasis. "Dude, a little _warning_ -" But Gabriel is already gone, back on the arm of Sam's chair.

"Sorry, Dean-o," the archangel apologizes without sounding remorseful at all. "The house is a safe zone right now, but can't have you going outside and waving a piece of Cassie's grace around like a flag. Someone might come snooping."

"Well aren't you helpful," Dean grumbles, looking down as he rubs at his chest again. "You selling cookies too? I hear it's about that time of year for you girl scouts."

And when silence meets the insult, Dean gets worried that maybe he's pissed the guy off. He cautiously looks back up at the brunette angel and...

And Gabriel is _smiling_.

At _him_.

And it's not even the condescending _I'm about to drop a piano on you, jackass_ smile.

If Dean didn't know better, he'd say it's... more like he's genuinely _happy_ about something.

It's friggin' _creepy_.

"...I'll put you down for two boxes," the archangel quips after a moment, crossing his arms. "After Sammy texted me about your _bitchy_ -" His face slides into a familiar smirk as he stresses the word. That's more like it. "little problem, I went and had a chat with Joshua."

"Joshua? Thought that guy was a gardener," Sam comments, looking up at the angel. And completely ignores the teasing look Dean is trying to give him about _texting_ the guy.

"Your confusion is understandable," Cas acquiesces, closing his book and placing it on the table. He sits forward and rests his elbows on his knees, bowing his head and clasping his hands. From this angle Dean can see his left shoulder blade tense as he settles. He'd asked about that during breakfast too, but Cas had weaseled out of answering by pointing out that Dean hadn't eaten yet and that had gotten _Sam_ on his case.

Cas can be a sneaky bastard.

_Well, he did learn from the best._

"He is sparsely mentioned in religious texts," the dark-haired angel explains, looking up. His eyes go distant for a moment. "...And he is referred to by another name. I believe they call him... Metatron."

And that grabs Dean's attention. "Metatron? As in the voice of God?" he asks. The question earns him a bunch of baffled stares.

"What?" He tries to shrug off their disbelief. Doesn't work. "I _do_ know things," he disputes irritably. When they continue to stare he sighs and admits, "Okay, so my resources include a Keven Smith movie. Shoot me."

Cas looks quite taken back by the suggestion, but Gabriel snorts. "Matt Damon did not do me justice at all."

"Oh, I dunno," Dean disagrees. "I think he captured your particular brand of crazy pretty well."

Gabriel's eyes narrow for a moment but then a wolfish grin spreads across his face. "This from a guy that has whole _websites_ dedicated to slash about him," he proclaims loudly.

A _clang_ echoes through the open doors of the kitchen followed by a quiet curse and a meek, "'M okay."

Dean gazes at the doorway for a minute before turning his attention back to the cocky bastard. "Dude, you leave Sam out of this-"

"Actually, it isn't just you two anymore," Gabriel informs him, upgrading his grin to 'shit-eating'.

"What are you-" Dean begins to ask, but then the archangel glances meaningfully in Cas's direction.

No, no, _no_ \- oh shit... "H-how do they even _know about_ -" he stammers.

"I said Chuck wasn't publishing the new stuff. Never said he didn't publish again ever," Gabriel points out. "The series stopped printing again after Sam's swan dive into the Cage."

Sam's face lights up with some sort of revelation. " _That's_ why Becky kept asking-" he begins, then snaps his mouth shut. He seems to wrestle with something mentally for a moment and then his face goes blank.

His shoulders twitch suspiciously though.

Dean doesn't want to know. He really, really doesn't. Especially if it involves someone with the words 'Sam' and 'licker' in their email address.

Gabriel looks positively gleeful. "And it even has a name, _Dest_ -mmph." But he doesn't get to finish, thank God, because he's too busy eating a face full of the pillow Dean has just thrown at him.

"What is slash?" Cas asks then, his face the picture of innocent curiosity.

Dean whirls on him and throws up his hands. "NOTHING!" he cries with a little too much protest. The dark-haired angel jerks away from him, eyes widening and eyebrows shooting up in surprise. He looks kind of like a scolded puppy.

It makes Dean feel bad about yelling. Dammit.

"Believe me, Cas. There are some things that aren't meant to be known," he tells the angel with a little less force, hoping he sounds apologetic.

"I see." Cas nods slowly; a look of awkward understanding graces his face. "It's something sexual then," he decides aloud.

And Dean vehemently tries to deny it, but he thinks he may have just swallowed his tongue. All that comes out is a strangled choking sound.

And his bastard brother isn't even trying to hide that he's laughing now. That is, until Gabriel leans down and says something quietly to him that Dean can't hear. It wipes the humor right off Sam's face and his eyes get comically large. He not-so-subtly leans away from the archangel and clears his throat loudly.

"Right. So. Metatron."

Apparently Cas, with his freaky angel super-hearing, heard whatever it was. He knits his eyebrows together, eyes darting between their brothers like he's trying to work out a complicated math problem.

Meanwhile, Dean's trying very hard not to put two and two together.

"Joshua is the... scribe of Heaven," Cas says after a moment. "He is the record keeper of celestial history." Ah, well that makes sense, especially if he's the only angel God is still talking to.

"Though he is usually... adverse to discussing his work." The look of frustration that filters across Cas's face suggests that he's had a 'little chat' or two of his own with the angel. Then again, it could just be residual resentment; the guy was the one that told them that God didn't care about the apocalypse after all.

"Dude didn't seem like much of a talker," Dean agrees with a shake of his head.

"Eh, he's not so bad. You just gotta know how to loosen him up," Gabriel interjects, leaning back and crossing his arms over his chest. "He's like..." He flares his eyebrows and laughs a little to himself. "He's like a Knight of Ni: bring him a shrubbery and he's down right sociable."

"So you bribed him. With plants."

"Pretty much." Gabriel nods.

"Anyway. Gather 'round, kiddies. Story time," the archangel announces.

"Joy," Bobby scoffs, closing the book Dean suspects he had just been using as an excuse to ignore them.

"Now, you all already know that the leviathans were Dad's first attempts at sentient life. They were simple, just basic instincts," Gabriel begins.

"And then they started tearin' up the rug," Dean adds.

"Yeah, and Dad got nervous. So he built himself a toy chest, called it Purgatory, and dumped them in." The archangel pauses, shooting a meaningful glance at Cas. The dark-haired angel has his head bowed now, seemly entranced with staring at his still-clasped hands.

Not this shit again.

"I didn't know about them either, lil' bro," Gabriel says gently. The words don't seem to console his younger brother, but Dean gives him points for trying.

The hunter sighs and claps Cas on the shoulder, giving him a little shake. "Don't make me punch you again," he threatens facetiously. And that garners a reaction; the angel turns his head just enough to give him a peevish glare and flares his nostrils. Dean's hand falls from his shoulder as he leans back on the couch and crosses his arms over his chest. Radiating annoyance, he gives Gabriel a jerky nod.

The archangel raises an eyebrow as he continues, "So Pops gave it a second go. This time he focused on quality instead of quantity. Made one being, gave her the ability to create life. That's something he left out of the leviathans' recipe, by the way."

"Well, that's a relief," Bobby sighs. "At least they ain't out there breedin'."

"Urgh, no talk of snake boinking. Please." Dean runs his hand over his face, nauseated at the thought. Gabriel doesn't seem to like the idea either, he continues without any smart-ass remarks about trouser snakes or the likes.

"...I guess Dad figured she'd respect life more if she had children of her own to love. And she did love them. But the buck stopped there, she despised everything else."

"And that was Eve?" Sam asks.

"That was Eve." Gabriel nods.

"She went and ruined it for us. She's why all the angels came out as robo-cop ken-dolls. He took free will out of the mix: made us obedient and already hardwired to love him, incapable of independence or creation."

"But Anna said that grace is pure creation."

Cas bristles. "That was a poor explanation," he voices tersely. "It can only affect things that already exist. That oak tree was a seed that was effected by her grace, the grace didn't create it out of thin air."

"Yeah," Gabriel agrees, sounding irritated as well. "Granted, I can be _very_ creative, but even _I_ have my limits." The archangel shares a loaded look with his brother.

After a moment he sighs and reaches up to scratch the back of his neck. "Anyway, Dad left Eve to her own devices for a long time, ignored her little temper tantrums, even that bitch fit sixty-five million years ago."

Sixty-five- wasn't that... _holy shit_.

Sam seems to come to the same conclusion. "You're screwing with us, right?" he demands, grimacing in disbelief.

"He is not," Cas speaks up. "I can attest to that."

"Jesus," Dean breathes, suddenly feeling very small. He'd known Cas was old, but he'd never really thought about _how old_. Or how old Eve had been, for that matter.

"None of us really got to know her, she was like a crazy cousin that everyone in the family avoided and never really talked about," Gabriel explains.

"When humans popped up, Pops gave them Eden and declared it a mojo-free zone. The new baby was off limits, he didn't want us teaching it bad habits. When Dad started doting on those two lovebirds, Eve got jealous. They were the first sentient beings that could create life since herself and she couldn't stand sharing that. She swooped in and popped their perception cherries. Pops was furious." He hesitates then. "...We weren't _allowed_ to watch him punish her."

Before Gabriel can continue, Sam speaks up, his voice a low monotone as he recites something from memory:

" _So the Lord God said to the serpent: Because you have done this, You are cursed more than all cattle, And more than every beast of the field; On your belly you shall go, And you shall eat dust all the days of your life. And I will put enmity between you and the woman, And between your seed and her Seed; He shall bruise your head, And you shall bruise His heel._ " [Genesis 3:14-15 NKJV]

"I guess that makes sense," he mumbles. There's a surprised silence as all eyes fall on the young man.

"Sam, how _the hell_ do you-" And Dean is about to ask just how the hell Sam has that _memorized_ but the question dies on his lips as a distant memory springs to mind. A little boy hanging on his older brother's every word as he reads him a bedtime story from the only book they'd had, the one that you're guaranteed to find in the nightstand of every motel room in the States. They'd never gotten very far before Sam would fall asleep and he'd always demand that they start from the beginning for some reason. "...You remember that?" he asks instead. He huffs out a laugh and shakes his head. "Geez."

"Yeah," Sam admits sheepishly, fiddling with his hands in his lap.

There's an awkward silence before the archangel clears his throat. Dean looks up at him then and is surprised by the shockingly _understanding_ expression on Gabriel's face. Dean remembers him once telling them that he'd taken an interest in them long ago, and now he wonders just how long Gabriel has been keeping tabs on them.

"And that's the origins of the monster/human family feud in a nutshell. Only he didn't literally mean her belly, he took something more precious than her legs."

"What?"

Gabriel's face closes off and he shifts uncomfortably. His voice lowers to a rough whisper, "...She was beautiful once." And that's all they get. Dean finds it incredibly hard to imagine that _thing_ they'd seen in that truck-stop camera as ever being beautiful though.

"After that he locked her in Purgatory too. Hell, most of us thought he'd created it for her," the archangel admits.

"And now everything creepy and crawly goes there."

"Yeah, back to their mother. She's wormed her way out a couple of times since then, ganked a few civilizations, made some new children, but she always ended up back in the slammer pretty quick. Except the last time, of course." Gabriel gives Dean a wink.

"Whelp, that's all I got," the archangel declares, slapping his thighs.

"That was interesting and all, but it doesn't really help us," Sam says with a frown. He runs a hand through his hair and sighs.

The phone rings in the kitchen.

There are footsteps and then an irritated, "Jeffers, I _told_ you not to call me about anymore missing-" A small pause, followed by a quieter, "...Oh, Hi Greg- sorry-" And the person on the other line interrupts her again. Everyone else in the room looks sharply at the open doors at the mention of the man's name, Dean notices, but he doesn't understand why.

The next time Jody speaks, her words are a clipped apology followed by a curse as this Greg guy apparently hangs up on her. There's the click of the phone being placed none-too-gently back on the receiver, and Jody, looking disturbed, enters the living room.

"That was Greg," she begins with a tight frown.

"And? Are the results in already?" Sam leans forward anxiously. Ah, okay. Greg, Jody's brother that was testing the goop. Dean remembers Sam mentioning that over breakfast now.

"No," she says slowly. "He called to chew me out. Apparently," she pauses, looking down at Dean warily. She reaches up and pushes a wayward lock of hair out of her face, her hand coming to rest on the back of her neck as she exhales a shaky breath. "Apparently three of their machines just _exploded_."

The bottom of Dean's stomach drops out. "Whoa, whoa, whoa," he stutters disbelievingly. "The stuff- the stuff that's _in me_ \- just nuked his _lab_?"

Jody's hand slides around to grip at her throat. "Yeah," is her disquieted reply.

"I only gave him a little bit," Gabriel says, throwing up his hands defensively.

"So I'm basically a ticking time bomb?" Dean asks numbly, staring down at his hands.

"We don't know that," he hears Sam disagree. "Maybe it's like, supercharged? Reacted to the machines?" the younger Winchester suggests.

"Stay away from power lines, Sparky," Gabriel advises Dean unhelpfully. "And the toaster."

"I'll toast _you_ ," Dean mutters, flicking his eyes up to glare at the archangel.

Gabriel cocks his head to the side and his mouth curls into a devious smile. "That a promise?"

"Bickering will get us nowhere," Cas reprimands them with a heavy sigh.

"Yeah, I'm low on spare light bulbs," Jody mutters as she walks back into the kitchen. Gabriel shoots Cas a questioning look and Dean bites his lip to hide his smile at the embarrassed flush that blooms on the angel's cheeks.

"I only broke five," he grumbles dejectedly. "And I apologized."

Dean pats him consolingly on the shoulder. "Chicks hold grudges."

He pulls his hand away abruptly when the red-head shouts from the next room, "And have guns!"

"So..." Dean ventures, changing the subject. "What do we know about this shit?"

"If Dr. Olson's research is anything to go by, then it's some sort of stem cell gene therapy crap. Now we know it's derived from Eve. And it apparently reacts to exposure to energy," Sam summaries. "The question is, what was Crowley trying to do with it?"

"Create a new all-mother?" Bobby suggests with distaste.

"That is a reasonable hypothesis," Cas admits. "Vessels are capable of withstanding immense amounts of energy. It would make them... ideal candidates."

"Why the hell would he do that though?" Bobby asks. "Eve hated his slimy guts," he points out.

"The vessels were possessed," Sam says. "What if that wasn't just to keep them manageable? What if he's trying to create some sort of demonic hybrid?" he guesses.

"Maybe he still has his eye on the Purgatory prize," Gabriel suggests. "Those souls are just sitting in there all by their lonesome."

"But where do I stand in all this?" Dean interrupts. "I'm not a chick," he reminds them all.

The silence that follows isn't comforting.

A horrifying thought strikes Dean.

"I'm not turning into a chick, am I?" he asks, suddenly alarmed. "Don't answer that," he snaps when Gabriel opens his mouth.

"Don't be ridiculous, Dean," Cas admonishes and then pauses, pensive. After a moment he asks, "You are still in possession of your genitalia, aren't you?"

Dean gapes.

"Yes- _Dude_ , _of course_ I am!" he cries indignantly. "Don't you think I would have mentioned if my fucking _junk vanished_!" He jabs his hand towards his pants in emphasis.

Cas's lip twitches.

And that's when Dean realizes that Cas is _joking_.

Honest-to-God poking fun at him.

Something ignites in his chest, a warm, fuzzy feeling that he hasn't felt in a long, long time.

_Fuck._

And he's too busy trying not to blush to even bother threatening his brother and Gabriel for laughing.

"That still leaves us pretty much where we were an hour ago, doesn't it?" Bobby asks, rolling his eyes. "He could still grow a tail, or another head, or fangs, or somethin'."

And that works like a bucket of ice water on Dean's mood. "Well aren't you a downer," he complains, even though he knows the older man is right.

"I'm just bein' realistic, boy. Honestly, what are the chances of this _not_ screwin' with you? We don't have that kind of luck," Bobby reminds him.

"I think those types of changes would have likely already been visible, considering how quickly a vampire or skinwalker turns once infected," Cas argues. "However... it's still not outside the realm of possibility."

And Dean's mood goes from bad to worse. "So I only _probably_ won't turn into a rabid monster," he grinds out. "Awesome."

He stands and heads toward the kitchen.

"Where are you going?" he hears Sam ask from behind him.

"I need a drink," he tosses over his shoulder irately.

No one stops him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there, spent just about the whole chapter mythology geeking everywhere. In the true spirit of the show, I took real lore and history and just did whatever the hell I wanted with it. And I'll probably do it a lot more, honestly. ♡
> 
> Also, as far as Cas's perceptiveness goes; remember, this was Dean's PoV, what Dean thinks is going on in his head is not necessarily what is _actually_ going on. ;)
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	10. Heeere's Lucy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Gabriel rolls his eyes in exasperation. "Your brother's as dense as a fruitcake, but he's not stupid, Sam."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all once again for your lovely kudos, comments, bookmarks, and subscribes! ❤

The french doors slam with a resounding _bang_.

"Glad to see he's taking this so well," Gabriel says from over Sam's shoulder, voice laced with sarcasm.

"Actually, I'd be _more_ worried if he hadn't done that at some point," Sam admits with a sigh, staring at the double doors. Violence and alcoholism are Dean's coping mechanisms of choice, especially lately.

Not that it makes Sam feel any better about it.

"Sam."

Bobby draws his attention with a hushed call of his name; he pivots his head in the direction of the older man.

The old hunter's face holds a tight frown, his brow furrowed and the corners of his eyes winkled with anxiety as he gazes at Sam. He opens his mouth and sucks in a breath in hesitation.

"I think you oughta hide those other three shells," he says finally, keeping his voice low.

That startles the younger Winchester. "...What?" he demands loudly in his surprise. The other hunter's eyes flicker to the shut doors to the kitchen, beyond which muted voices can be heard. "Why?" Sam asks, getting the hint and lowering his voice to match the older man's volume. "Bobby, you don't think he'd-"

"I don't wanna _have_ to think about it. That's why I'm askin' you to hide 'em," Bobby says firmly, his expression unyielding but not angry.

"But-" Sam can't help but argue, he adamantly wants to deny that Dean would even _consider_ -

"Sam." A hand falls heavy on his shoulder. "He's right," Gabriel says gently. Sam looks up at him then, the archangel's face holds a sad kind of understanding that he's only seen there a couple times before. It makes his stomach twist.

"If he believed himself dangerous..." Castiel begins, turning away from his own staring contest with the doors. He looks down at his hands for a moment, rubbing furiously at one of his bruised wrists with his thumb, then looks up at Sam, his blue eyes wide and forlorn under his furrowed brow. "Your brother is prone to self-sacrifice," he says grimly.

"Understatement," Gabriel mutters under his breath, earning himself an agitated glare from the dark-haired angel on the couch. "What?" he asks indignantly. "All three of you are martyr-o-holics," the archangel argues.

"Claims the one who distracted Lucifer with his _life_ ," Castiel counters gruffly. Sitting up straighter, he continues to glare at his older brother.

"You really wanna get into this right now, _Assbutt_?" Gabriel throws back. And that shuts Castiel up, his eyes dart around the room and his posture droops in what Sam guesses is a failed attempt to look nonchalant. It kind of reminds him of a little kid that's trying not to look guilty after he realizes he's been tattled on. It would be amusing if it didn't also remind him of what role he'd played in that confrontation.

 _Ah, good times,_ Lucifer reminisces as he shimmers into existence on the couch next to the angel. _We should do that again,_ he says as he slings his arm over an oblivious Castiel's shoulders. He looks straight at Sam then, a lopsided smirk gracing his imaginary features.

Oh, Goddammit. Not now.

He's almost glad that this isn't the first time today that Lucifer has broken through and actually manifested. (He'd popped up behind Dean at breakfast and started crowing a Kansas song before Sam had put the kibosh on him.) It makes it easier for Sam to mask his alarm. He thinks he does a good job of it anyway; no one seems to react to his stunted gasp, or the way he subtly clamps his hands together, squeezing for all he's worth at his scar. The Devil rolls his eyes and sighs as he blinks back out of existence.

"That ain't the only scenario I'm worried about," Bobby says darkly, seemingly completely unaware of Sam's inner turmoil. He takes off his hat and runs a hand through his hair. "There's always the chance..." he trails off, looking very tired all of a sudden. "Goddammit..." His hand falls to his lap and he looks almost... defeated. "One of us might have to..."

He doesn't finish. But then, he doesn't have to; Sam knows exactly what he means. Judging by the squeeze on his shoulder and Castiel's face, they both know exactly what Bobby means too.

 _He's right, you know,_ Lucifer pipes up from somewhere inside his head. _Are you sure that's even your brother anymore, Sammy?_ he presses. And there is no question in Sam's mind that _yes, that is Dean,_ but angry boils to the surface anyway. He clenches his hand, focusing for a moment on the way his fingernails bite into his palm.

Bobby stands then and makes his way to the door to the hallway. He pauses there, puts his cap back on, and doesn't turn around as he says, "I'll be in the basement." He quickly disappears around the corner and a few seconds later a door opens and closes.

Sam knows he's probably got a few bottles of booze stashed down there, knows he's probably going down there to do the same thing his brother is doing in the kitchen. Not that he blames the man, the thought of having to... _put down_... family has _always_ been an especially raw nerve... for all of them.

 _I could do it for you,_ Lucifer offers cheerfully.

And that scares the fuck out of Sam.

He knows he's gone ridged now, can see the cautious look Castiel is giving him from across the room and thinks Gabriel might have even said his name, but none of that matters. Because Lucifer just implied that he could take control if he let him and Sam is busy freaking the fuck out.

God, if that's even _possible_...

 _Don't you know, Sammy? Anything's possible,_ the Devil cajoles gleefully.

Instead of humoring the voice in his head again, he gets up swiftly and trudges to the bags in the corner. The shells are easy to find; the ammunition bag is still open from when Dean did his little 'test'. He pulls them out one by one and gathers them in the palm of one hand.

 _You wouldn't even have to lift a finger,_ Lucifer insists. _Well, no, I suppose technically you would, wouldn't you?_ he admits with a laugh.

Sam's hand shakes as his fingers curl around the cartridges. _Shut up,_ he snarls mentally. He's glad he's turned away from the other men in the room, he's sure the internal argument is reflected on his face. He leaves the room quickly, completely ignoring the visage of Lucifer waiting for him in the hallway, and makes his way up the stairs to the spare bedroom Jody had offered him last night.

Sam hears the hellucination's footsteps follow him into the modest bedroom, but he ignores it. Instead, he goes immediately to the nightstand, wrenches open the drawer, and tosses the shells in. He stares down at them as they roll and clink together on the particleboard bottom.

 _It'd be easy._ He can hear the mocking smile in Lucifer's voice.

A hand lands on his shoulder.

He reacts without thinking, whirling around and fully planning on kicking the archangel's ass. Never mind the fact that he probably can't even hit the bastard.

"Whoa! Easy there, Rocky!"

It takes Sam a moment to realize that the archangel he's facing isn't the one he'd been expecting.

He blinks, screwing up his eyes so hard that white spots begin to form before opening them again. "Gabe?" he asks and mentally curses himself when his voice wavers with uncertainty. The former trickster is standing about a foot from him, his eyebrows high on his forehead and his features draw in an earnest look of concern that makes Sam's mouth go dry for some reason. Beyond Gabriel, in the doorway, he can see a distraught Castiel watching the scene.

Sam glances sideways then and finds the archangel has caught his fist mid-swing. He drops his arm, hastily breaking the contact, and clears his throat. "What are you guys doing up here?" he asks, trying to keep his tone light and curious to draw attention away from the fact that he'd just tried to assault the guy.

"Oh, just thought we'd take the tour," the brunette angel beings with a causal shrug and gestures back at his brother, then around the room. "You know, check out the view... make sure you weren't up here _seizing on the floor_ ," Gabriel informs him with a _nice try_ quirk of his eyebrow. "Don't think we didn't notice you go all Beautiful Mind downstairs."

_Damn._

"I'm fine," Sam assures, though the fact that he can see Lucifer stretched out on the bedspread out of the corner of his eye argues against it.

"Yeah," Gabriel snorts mirthlessly. "Because you weren't just trying to punch my clock thinking I was my dick older brother." He gives Sam a pointed look.

 _He always was whiny little bitch. Could use a good fist to the face, if you ask me,_ Lucifer comments. Sam can't help looking over as the Devil yawns and settles into a more comfortable position on the bed. When he looks back, Gabriel's eyes have narrowed; the archangel's gaze flickers suspiciously between the bed and Sam.

No use trying to deny it now.

"Just," Sam starts then sighs tiredly, his shoulders slumping in defeat. "Just don't tell Dean, okay?" he beseeches. He knows his brother will be pissed later, but the man really doesn't need any more on his plate right now.

Gabriel rolls his eyes in exasperation. "Your brother's as dense as a fruitcake, but he's not stupid, Sam."

"I know. Look, I just don't want him to know that it's worse now... You _know_ he'll blame himself," Sam pleads.

 _And rightfully so,_ the Devil points out. _Remind me to thank him later,_ he muses ominously.

And Sam really wants to turn around, to just- just _yell_ \- for all he's worth at the guy to just _shut the fuck up_ , but he refuses to look away from the archangel in front of him until he agrees. He clenches his jaw and flares his nostrils in frustration and doesn't even bother to be subtle when he jabs at his scar this time.

Gabriel gives him a hard look; he shakes his head after a moment and exhales loudly through his nose. "Yeah. Yeah, okay," he agrees belligerently, his mouth twisted into a frown.

"Sam," Castiel speaks up, eyes downcast. "I cannot even begin to apologize," he says morosely, shoulders hunched.

"It's-" Sam starts then stops as the angel looks up at him, not really sure what to say. He understands why Castiel did it, understands that it probably would have happened eventually anyway. Hell, he's stood in the angel's shoes before himself, after freeing Lucifer. Knows, at least on some level, what must be going through Castiel's head right now. And like he told Bobby, he's not angry. But that doesn't make it all okay, doesn't make the hellucinations any less real and they both know it. He settles for a simple truth. "I forgive you," he tells Castiel with sincerity, looking him straight in the eye.

The angel flinches at the words, but keeps eye contact. His adam's apple bobs once, twice, then, "...Once I've regained more of my strength, I can reconstruct the wall," he says finally, his voice rough.

And Sam doesn't know what to say to that either. He's thought about it and honestly doesn't think he wants it back, doesn't think he could handle starting over if it fell again, doesn't like the idea of forgetting again, doesn't want to go back to that. But he also doesn't want to make the angel feel like he's rejecting his help, can see how important it is to Castiel to try to fix this.

"That's one option." Gabriel's wary words save him from answering.

"...One option?" Sam asks slowly. "I thought it was the _only_ option."

"I dunno if it'd work," the archangel says, running a hand through his hair. "Didn't think of it 'til recently. But..." He shifts on his feet and glances back at his brother. "We could try what Cas did for your brother when he yanked him outta the Pit," he says quietly.

What he... Oh.

"I... hadn't thought of that," Castiel admits with a small frown, eyes narrowing in deliberation.

"S'why they pay me the big bucks, bro."

Sam stands there for a moment, running the idea through his head. "And... what would that do, exactly?" he asks warily.

"Theoretically... it would repair the..." Castiel pauses as a grimace overtakes his features. "...physical... damage to your soul and inhibit future deterioration without causing memory loss."

Gabriel crosses his arms and bobbles his head back and forth thoughtfully. "Think of it like... angelic anti-virus for your noggin: weeds out the crazy instead of just trying to blocking it with that little firewall."

Sam stares at him and scoffs. "Right, because you know all about computers."

The archangel lets out a bark of laughter and smiles smugly. "Please." He lifts an eyebrow. "Who do you think was responsible for Vista?" And Sam can't help the incredulous chuckle that escapes. Because, God, that's just too much.

"Anyway, it should stop the hallucinations. Hopefully." Gabriel sighs. "Like I said, I dunno honestly. Not like we've had a chance to beta test this shit. Luckily, we have the expert on call for tech support."

"Those were different circumstances," Castiel points out, shifting uncomfortably.

"Those were the _only_ circumstances, bro," Gabriel argues.

The dark-haired angel sighs and rolls his shoulder. "Grace will heal a soul, but it can't interact with it beyond that. It will go into a sort of... hibernation after it's done working. Though..." Castiel looks away from them as he continues, "I would sometimes... stimulate it... when Dean was having a particularly bothersome nightmare." Castiel mutters the last part so low that Sam barely hears it and the younger Winchester has to stifle a smile when he realizes that the angel is _embarrassed_ by the admission.

He clears his throat before asking, "And there aren't any side-effects?"

"Dean-o didn't notice any." Gabriel looks back at his brother for confirmation. "But then again, that's a small sample size."

"Though you might start having freaky dreams if I go MIA," the archangel half-jokes. Castiel doesn't look amused.

"Your brother was not in his body yet while he was being healed. And your soul is damaged, not demonified, so I cannot predict how the process will effect you. But if your brother's current condition is any indication, then it will not be painful. Although..." He hesitates then, pressing his mouth into a thin line and turning his attention to his brother.

"Gabriel, if you give him too much-" Castiel begins cautiously.

The former trickster cuts him off with a dismissive wave of his hand. "I know, I know."

"What?" Sam asks, not wanting to be left in the dark.

"Remember what I said about archangel vessels?"

Sam draws on his memories of the conversation in the motel room yesterday. God, was that really only yesterday? It feels like _weeks_ ago. "...That you have to use certain ones... and that demon blood screws with that."

"Right. So, you're... sensitive. There's an _itty bitty_ chance I could overdose you," Gabriel acknowledges. The look on Castiel's face tells Sam that this is probably a severe understatement.

Castiel clears his throat and looks off to the side. "I could-"

"Oh no, you can't," Gabriel cuts him off again. Castiel tries to argue but the archangel just glares and declares firmly, "Not in your condition, lil' bro."

And the dark-haired angel looks like he still wants to argue with that, but he glares back and instead says, "Then perhaps we should wait-"

"Or I could do this now, _before_ he goes full-blown Shining on us," Gabriel argues, waving his fingers around his head in emphasis.

"Gee, thanks," Sam mutters.

 _Heeere's Lucy. That_ does _have a nice ring to it._ The Devil's voice springs back into his head. Sam inhales sharply in irritation and tries to focus on Gabriel's explanation.

"You didn't have any kind of... allergic reaction... to me healing you yesterday, so hooking you up with a little of my mojo _should_ be perfectly safe." The archangel gives Castiel an expectant look.

 _Should? Come_ on _, Sam. These fuck-ups don't know what they're doing,_ Lucifer insists.

Castiel sighs in what Sam is sure is grudging concession. "You must let one of us know _immediately_ should something feel... wrong," he warns.

 _See? Fuck. Ups. They'll fry your brain like bacon,_ Lucifer points out. _And we both know you didn't enjoy that the first... few hundred times, remember?_

And God, does he. Sam can't help the grimace and shudder that follow.

"If you wanna give this go, that is," Gabriel adds quickly, probably misinterpreting the expression.

"I..." Sam stands there for a moment, biting his lip.

 _Besides..._ Lucifer's voice turns gloating, probably assuming some sort of victory at his uncertainty. _You'd miss me._

That cinches it. "Okay," he agrees quietly. "Let's do this."

Gabriel is silent for a second, watching him. Suddenly he cocks his head and grins. "Alrighty then," he declares and rubs his hands together.

Castiel's eyes dart rapidly between them. "I'll just go... check on Dean," he mumbles awkwardly and disappears down the hallway in a hurry.

"What's his problem?" Sam asks, looking after the angel in confusion.

"Cassie's a gentleman. He didn't think you'd want him seeing me do _this_."

And before Sam can react, Gabriel is winding his arms around him and leaning up to press their lips together.

 _Sam. Sam, wait. DON'T-_ But Sam doesn't hear whatever Lucifer says after that.

The kiss is light at first, a tentative brushing of lips that makes Sam's heart do a weird little stutter. With surprise, of course. And nothing else. Then Gabriel is pulling on the back of his neck, bringing him down more forcefully. Sam's lips part slightly in a gasp at the feeling of the tip of a tongue running over his bottom lip. And that's all the opening Gabriel apparently needs, because the next thing Sam knows the angel's tongue is exploring his mouth, twinning around his own. And he's kissing him right back, he realizes. When did that happen? But before he can wonder about it further he feels something like warm air caressing the inside of his mouth and flowing down his throat, settling in his ribcage. And he briefly wonders if _this_ is what Dean has been feeling since he woke up because _holy shit_. And he thinks he hears himself moan a little, but he doesn't even care because it's been a _very_ long time since he's been kissed like this and it's light and warm and _wonderful_.

When Gabriel pulls back, Sam tries to ignore the little stab of disappointment.

For a moment, they just stand there gazing at each other, warm breath mingling in the narrow space between their faces. At some point during the kiss Sam's arms had found their way around the angel, one wrapped around his back, and the other tangled in his hair.

"You okay?" the angel murmurs. And Sam wants to tell him that he's _fantastic_ , but he seems to have lost his voice. He's pretty sure he'd sound high as a kite anyway, certainly feels like it. It kind of reminds him of the time they'd drugged him up in that psych ward, only _better_ , like his whole body is- _fucking buzzing_ \- or electrified or something. "It was either that or a hand print," Gabriel explains, then his mouth curls in into one of his infamous smirks. "Dunno about you, but I personally enjoyed that way more."

"Yeah, no... yeah. I'm..." Sam finally gets his voice to work. He knows he's grinning like an idiot and, yeah, he sounds loopy, even to his own ears. But he doesn't really give a shit. "I'm great. _Awesome_ ," he says emphatically. His cheeks already hurt a little from smiling so much. "Like, _awesome_ awesome."

The archangel stares at him critically, then chuckles a little. "That should wear off... eventually. 'Til then, try not to embarrass yourself."

* * *

While Jody chews him out about 'people slamming doors and breaking shit in her house', Dean snags a bottle of rotgut from the cupboard and sits at the kitchen table, fully intent on drinking away all of his feelings.

Even the confusing ones.

_Shut up._

The sheriff apparently realizes that her lecturing is a lost cause after a few seconds and instead watches intently as he fills his glass with two fingers worth of hunter's helper. "Don't suppose I could talk you into eating something?" she asks causally as she dries a coffee cup.

"Nope," Dean assures her, knocking back the contents of his glass; the acrid amber liquor stings his tongue and burns as it hits the the back of his throat. He leans back in his chair as he pours himself another glass, the warmth of the alcohol already starting to spread through him.

The sigh that comes from Jody sounds irritated, but her ire apparently isn't directed at Dean. She glares in the direction of the living room then mutters something inaudible and sets the mug on the counter with a little too much force. Grabbing herself a glass from the cupboard, she sits down across from him.

"So," Jody begins, swiping the bottle off the table and filling her own glass. "I hear you've been having a rough time."

"Jesus," Dean mutters. "Didn't realize the feeling police out there had recruited you." He jerks his head in the direction of the now-closed french doors.

"No," she counters, taking a sip from her glass and stifling a cough. "I'm just nosy," she rasps, squinting her eyes. Dean snorts, though if it's at her reaction to the liquor or her honesty, he doesn't know. He hesitates then, considering the invitation. Leaning forward, he shifts in his chair and rests his elbows on the table.

What the hell.

It's not like everyone else in the house doesn't already know.

Most of it.

_Dude, don't you dare go there._

"Well then, Sheriff. Just remember: you asked." And for some reason, it's really easy to tell her; he doesn't know if it's the liquor or because she reminds him so much of Ellen. Which is another subject he's not going to touch right now. But everything that's happened in the last couple years (barring the weird Cas-related shit that he can't explain from the last twenty-four hours) just comes pouring out of his mouth like verbal diarrhea. A lot of it she's probably already heard, but at least some she apparently hasn't, judging by her reaction.

By the time he's finished, they're both pretty loaded.

Jody sits quietly for a moment before offering her slightly slurred response, "Jesus."

"You said it," Dean agrees with a nod, topping off both their glasses.

The read-head twists her glass on the table thoughtfully. "So what happens now?" she asks quietly.

"Dunno," he admits. Dean reaches up and rubs at his forehead, feeling the headache from earlier creeping back in. Dropping his hand back down to the table and shaking his head slowly, he mournfully adds, "I don't wanna grow a tail."

"Oh God, that'd be awful," she concurs, tossing back the contents of her glass this time without so much as a flinch. "You'd have to cut holes in all your pants."

"...Unless it was, like, a lion tail or something," Dean muses with a gesture of his hand. "That'd be kinda badass."

Jody nods thoughtfully. "Or a mane. Like Bobby's beard... I like Bobby's beard," she says with a giggle. "It tickles." And that is something he could have lived forever without knowing.

"That's gross," he informs her, pointing a wavering finger. "He's like practically my dad."

"Sorry," she mutters; her already flushed cheeks darken.

Dean shrugs, empties his glass, and huffs out a breath. "So you and him, huh?" he asks despite what he'd just said.

"Yeah." She grins and plays with her empty glass.

It's actually comforting news. Dean and Sam at least have each other, but Bobby is alone more often than not. They both worry about him. Especially after Rufus...

"You know..." He clears his throat. "Break his heart and I'll kick your ass. Don't care if you're a chick." He jabs his finger at her again in emphasis.

Jody doesn't even bat an eye at the threat. Her mouth twists into a bittersweet smile and her voice is quiet as she promises, "I'll watch out for him."

Dean nods his silent thanks.

"That goes both ways, you know," she adds, raising an eyebrow and poking her finger back at him. "Make him worry too much and I'll have to kick yours. And I play dirty; I'll pull your tail."

Dean snorts in a mixture of relief and amusement. "Deal."

In the brief silence that follows Dean notices a stutter in the weak-but-steady rhythm he now recognizes as Gabriel's presence. He's just about to get up to find out what the hell it could mean when Cas appears from the hallway, looking a little anxious.

Dean turns to greet him with a small frown. "Everything alright?"

"Hiya, Cas-tiel." Jody stumbles over the name a little.

"Hello," Cas replies automatically. Looking back at the doorway, he adds, "I believe so."

Dean relaxes then; Cas would have clearly felt whatever that was too. And if he's not worried then Dean figures he, being a complete rookie at this shit, shouldn't be either. That could have been an angel sneeze, for all he knows. He shifts in his chair, leaning back and crossing his arms over his chest. "Did they send you to check on me?" he asks, any lingering consternation giving way to annoyance at the idea. "Still tail-free," he informs the angel testily.

"No," Cas says, eyes darting to the ceiling. "But I'm happy to hear that," he remarks distractedly. He purses his lips and looks back down, drawing a chair and practically throwing himself into it. Slinging one arm on the table, the angel sighs heavily.

Dean takes one look at him, sitting there all beat up and gloomy looking and shit, and decides to take pity. He grabs the bottle, fills his glass again, then slides it across the table. "Here."

It probably won't do much, Dean realizes, but Cas seems to appreciate the gesture; he catches the glass with ease and knocks it back in one go with an uttered, "Thank you."

"Angels drink?" Jody asks, bent forward with her head resting on the palms of her hands.

Dean grins. "Cas drank a whole liquor store once." He chuckles at the memory. "Actually, dude, you're a pretty mean drunk," he tells the angel.

"Those were extenuating circumstances," Cas reminds him with a defensive glower. "It takes a lot to compromise an angel," he explains to Jody at her bewildered expression.

"Huh."

"Angels aren't all fluffy wings 'n shit," Dean says, nodding in Cas's direction. "Cas is a badass." The comment pulls a hint of a smile out of the angel and that warm, fuzzy feeling sparks to life in Dean's chest again. "His brothers are dicks though," he adds quickly.

"You are not wrong," Cas admits, taking on a pensive demeanor as he pours himself another glass. "They can be... intransigent." He lifts the glass to his lips and takes a slow sip. Dean catches himself watching the smooth slide of the muscles in the angel's throat as he swallows. When he realizes that he's staring, he looks away quickly.

"They're not the only ones," Jody murmurs. Dean looks up at her and finds her watching him, her head tilted to the side and her eyes narrowed knowingly. Fuck.

Suddenly the dull ache in his head stabs painfully at his eyes; they unfocus and he clamps them shut on instinct, reaching up to rub them.

"Dean?" Chairs screech and he feels a hand on his shoulder. He opens his eyes experimentally; Jody's form, standing and leaning over the table toward him, grimacing in motherly concern, swims into view. The edges of his vision are blurry and the colors look oddly washed out, almost over-exposed. He tries to look up at Cas, but immediately slam his eyes shut and looks away when the light becomes too much.

"Dean?" Cas asks again, squeezing his shoulder and sounding concerned. Dean can sense that he's leaning down, probably to examine him again. He feels his face heat up as Cas's warm hand brushes back the fringe of his bangs and settles across his forehead.

"I'm fine," Dean assures. Cas huffs out a breath that tells him the angel isn't convinced. "Headache. Tired, I guess," he tries again. The hand disappears from his forehead and he feels Cas step back a bit. He opens his eyes again, keeping his head down; his vision is still distorted, and his head throbs painfully.

"Think I need to lay down." Dean stands; the room spins and he's pretty sure it has nothing to do with the alcohol. He feels a little embarrassed when Cas slips his arm around his shoulders to steady him.

His stomach does a weird flip-flop when, right next to his ear, Cas murmurs, "I think that would be wise."

"Upstairs, first door on the right," Jody tells them, but Dean isn't really paying attention anymore. He really does feel very tired all of a sudden. He doesn't even bother trying to shake the angel off, keeping his eyes on the floor, as he guides him down the hallway.

He kind of regrets that though when he hears a shuffle on the stairs above them. Dean knows he'll probably hear hell about this later.

"Looks like Deanna can't hold her liquor."

Or maybe right now.

"Fuck you," he grinds out.

"Some other time," Gabriel suggests slyly. "Seems your dance card's already full for the evening." And oh, Goddammit, he walked right into that one.

Sam's laughter rings in the narrow space of the hallway then, so _bright_ and genuinely _happy_ that it makes something in Dean's chest swell almost painfully.

Jesus, he hasn't heard his brother laugh like that in _years_.

It startles him into looking up. But the quick movement make his head pound and the light tears sharply at his retinas, distracting him. He bites out a curse as he squeezes his eyes shut and looks away.

There's a pause then and he hears more shuffling. There's a quiet exchange between Gabriel and his brother; the archangel says something unintelligible, followed by what sounds like a protest from Sam, followed in turn by more unhearable words from the angel, and then Dean hears someone walk toward the living room.

"Alright there, Dean-o?" Gabriel's voice is much closer now, all pretense of joking gone. Dean opens his eyes again and glares down a the carpet.

"Got a headache. M'fine," he mutters, shifting his weight against Cas and trying to pull away. The effort is wasted though; the angel's arm tightens around him making it impossible.

"I'm taking him to bed," Cas says. And oh God, he _really_ needs to talk to the angel about sexual innuendos because dammit, he can hear Sam doing an bad impression of a hyena from the next room.

"That's... aberrant," he hears Cas remark quietly.

"High as Mount Everest," Gabriel responds. Dean doesn't know if it's the headache, or the fatigue, but he has no clue what either of them are talking about. He makes a mental note to ask later.

Cas makes a thoughtful noise in the back of his throat.

Gabriel sighs and mutters something about babysitting that Dean takes offense at. But before he can piece together a retort, he hears the asshole already walking away toward the living room. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do," the archangel calls suggestively from somewhere further down the hall.

And Dean feels a stab of shock and pride as Cas says something surprisingly rude about his older brother under his breath.

They trudge upstairs and take the first door on the right. The room is blessedly dark, the curtains on the window drawn to block the afternoon sun. Dean doesn't really look around though as he's help into bed.

"Thanks Cas," Dean says as he settles against the pillows, eyes already shut.

"You're welcome, Dean," Cas says softly, somewhere off to his left.

Dean signs contently, body already losing the will to move; the bed is really friggin' comfortable. "Dreamed about you, you know," he says sleepily when he senses that Cas hasn't moved to leave yet.

The angel is silent for a moment, Dean hears a light rustling and then feels the bed dip as Cas sits down.

"Sam told me about the connection we shared while I was... incarcerated," the angel begins, his voice a low, soothing rumble. "I'm sorry it made you ill. I didn't know it was occurring." As Cas speaks, he sounds like he's leaning a little closer.

"What? No... it's cool. I mean... while I was... Yesterday." He hadn't planned on telling... _anyone_ this, doesn't know why he's telling Cas now. The angel doesn't respond, but Dean can tell he's still listening.

"Showed up 'n... saved me..." he trials off as he feels sleep taking hold.

Dean doesn't hear if Cas responds, but he drifts off to the sensation of fingers running through his hair.

* * *

The dream is pleasant for once.

Dean sits on the edge of a familiar dock, toes skimming the sun-warmed water as he watches the day end. It isn't the dock outside the house by Lake Preston; he's pretty sure that this serene scene only exists in his subconscious. As he looks out over the lake, its surface ripples and swirls, orange and blue with evening aquatic activity. The air is still and warm, but there's a heaviness to it, a charge. It's as if the world around him is holding its breath in anticipation, waiting for something to happen.

He takes a long pull from the beer in his hand, leaning over and peering down at the water directly below him. His reflection stares back up at him, looking relaxed and calm, wavering occasionally as his toes disturb the water. He can make out dark shapes swimming and weaving around each other below the surface; they move quickly, fuzzy blurs in the murky depths.

"Don't fall," a gruff warning comes from behind. Dean starts at the voice. Leaning back and craning his head around, he finds Cas standing just behind him.

The angel moves forward then, coming to settle on the dock beside him. His familiar trench coat rustles on the warn wood and bunches around him as he sits, and his dress shoes don't quite reach the water. "Father's creations never cease to amaze me," Cas comments as he looks out over the lake.

"Dream-stalking again, are we?"

"No," Cas's profile smiles crookedly and once again Dean feels a little sad that this is just a dream.

They sit in comfortable silence for a while.

As darkness descends over the lake, Cas breaks the stillness with a tired sigh. "It isn't over," he says quietly, a weary sadness audible in his tone.

"What isn't?" Dean asks, turning toward the angel, brow furrowing in confusion. When he doesn't get an immediate answer, he feel the begins of panic lace their way through his chest. "Cas, what's going on?" he presses.

A light breeze picks up and tugs at the the angel's dark locks as he turns to Dean, a sorrowful smile marring his face.

Something feels off, _strange_. But Dean can't quite...

And then it hits him.

Cas's eyes are _green_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone else find the idea of Dean and Cas sharing the same shot glass kinda hot? Maybe I'm just a weirdo.
> 
> And of course Gabriel would go and steal the first kiss of the story. I swear, it's like he's got a mind of his own. ;)
> 
> PS: Sam's reaction to the grace was partially inspired by a scene from MissAnnThropic's wonderful fic "Saving Grace". It's not quite a Destiel, but I highly recommend it.
> 
> PPS: Most horrifying helLUCination evar: Mark Pellegrino dressed as Tim Curry from "It", riding a unicorn that shoots rainbows out its ass. And now try to sleep tonight.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	11. Wake Up Call

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Oh, it is," the archangel assures him. "It's all bullshit, and I'm stuck shoveling it."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all once again for all of your kudos/comment/bookmark/subscribe love! ❤
> 
> Here, have a little taste of Cas PoV! \o/

For a being whose lifespan is measured in hundreds of millions of years, it's sometimes... challenging to keep track of time.

That being said, Castiel doesn't really know how long he sits there, watching Dean sleep.

He focuses on the slow, steady rise and fall of the man's chest, tries to lose himself in the rhythm of Dean's breathing, tries desperately not to let his thoughts overtake him.

Thinking is a dangerous thing for Castiel now.

Worries and regrets fester in his mind like dirty, infected wounds, wounds that he's spent far too long picking at in his prison as he watched Crowley commit atrocity after atrocity. The last of which he'd aided in, albeit unwillingly.

They hadn't known each other long, but he and Kate had formed a fragile friendship in those hours before her... eradication. For a brief time he'd even dared to hope that she wouldn't meet the same fate as the others, that it would end with her, that his disgraceful break would have some sort of silver lining.

But of course it hadn't.

And then it'd happened to Dean.

When he'd first seen it... even battered and blemished, surrounded by the hate and pain and darkness of the Pit, Dean Winchester's soul had been... exquisite, ethereal. So bright and full of love that he'd almost been afraid to touch it.

And the thought of it being destroyed, simply wiped from existence, is beyond horrifying to Castiel.

He's done so many things, good and bad, in the name of protecting this one, tiny soul. Rebellion, blasphemy... fratricide. He's been shot, stabbed, exercised, rehabilitated... died... _thrice_...

The fact of the matter is his existence had been a whole lot simpler before he'd saved Dean Winchester.

And yet, Castiel knows he wouldn't trade his time with him for anything in Creation.

The sleeping hunter makes a sound, starling him out of his reverie. He reaches up and brushes Dean's brunette bangs back, weaving his fingers through the man's hair and checking for fever. Castiel has always admired the softness of Dean's hair; though even he knows that isn't a compliment the man would take kindly.

When he's satisfied that the hunter's temperature is normal, his hand slides to rest against Dean's cheek, thumb rubbing at the peach fuzz of his temple. And Castiel lets himself smile a little as the hunter breathes deeply and unconsciously leans into the touch.

" _Cas_ ," his name ghosts passed Dean's lips. The angel stills then, fearing he's woken the man, before he realizes that he's still completely asleep. His body's heart rate speeds up at the thought that Dean might be dreaming of him again. And he's sorely tempted to reach into the man's dreams, but is frightened of what harm further exposure to his grace might do.

He knows he shouldn't, knows Dean would be furious if he ever found out, but just for a moment he says to Hell with it and gives in to a different temptation that he's had for a long time, instead.

He leans forward and presses his lips lightly to Dean's forehead.

As his lips brush the warm, smooth expansion of skin, a strange sensation, like the caress of feathers, blooms in his chest. It's not unpleasant, he decides. He closes his eyes and focuses, can feel faint traces of grace leaking through the sigils on Dean's ribs, humming over his skin.

It fills Castiel with a sense of... _possessiveness_ that is almost frightening.

In his time as 'God', filled with millions upon millions of monster souls, their urges and desires screamed at him, crashed against him like waves in a storm. They'd mingled with his own, melded together in a confusing, indecipherable mesh of protect-destroy-want-need-hate-love- _mine_.

Though the souls are gone, locked back in Purgatory where they belong, he's found that not all of those... instincts left with them.

Especially concerning Dean.

Someone clears their throat behind him.

He pulls back and turns to find his brother standing in the doorway.

And Castiel waits for the joke, the mocking he's sure is coming.

But Gabriel just smiles at him and says, "Hey, bro."

It makes Castiel suspect that this isn't just a social call. Even though his connection to the Host is tenuous, he's still heard enough to know that there are issues that he and his brother need to discuss, that Gabriel has been waiting for an opportune moment to do so.

"Gabriel," he greets warily. "How is Sam?"

The archangel chuckles and leans against the door jam. "Finally out. Lucky for me..." He scrubs a hand over his face and rubs at his eyes. "If I'd had to listen to him read one more LOLcat caption, I think I was gonna hack up a hairball. Just zapped him up here." He looks passed Castiel. "How's Dean-o?"

"Resting," Castiel replies.

"Come on then, we need to chat."

* * *

Dean drifts on the edge of consciousness. He's relaxed and comfortable and wonderfully headache-free, enjoying the firm hold of the arms wrapped around him and the warmth radiating from the body pressed to his. His cheek rubs against something soft and cloth with each slow breath his partner takes-

Wait.

Dean's eyes shoot open. He's greeted with the hard, flat plain of a chest. A very male chest. Wearing one of his shirts.

The shirt that Cas had been wearing, to be exact.

What the fuck.

Carefully, slowly, he angles his head up... Sure enough, it's Cas.

And Dean is practically friggin' _draped_ over him.

_Oh God._

The angel's eyes are closed, his face relaxed in sleep. His dark, tousled hair frames his features, emphasizing the contrast of heavy black lashes against ivory skin. He looks so unearthly, so... beautiful. Not that Dean goes around thinking that men are beautiful, angels totally don't count. Nope.

So when his eyes drift down to the angel's partially parted lips, it totally doesn't count as a gay moment either. Because the dude is an angel, he's _Cas_ , and... it just _doesn't_.

Right?

Blinking, he realizes the gravity of the situation. Had Cas gotten in to bed with him? Because that goes so far beyond breaching personal space...

But that's when he realizes that they're on the couch. In the living room.

How the hell?

Unless...

_Oh shit._

Had he _sleepwalked_ down here? To get on the couch with the angel? Because he really can't remember. He hadn't been _that_ drunk... had he?

Whatever had happened, he really doesn't want anyone finding them like this, let alone have Cas waking up like this. Especially if Dean had been the one to instigate... But what if Cas _had_ been awake... But then, they're fully clothed, so clearly nothing had happened.

Jesus, where the fuck did _that_ come from?

The thought is almost laughable. What does he _think_ would have happened? _He_ certainly wouldn't have tried anything funny... He's almost positive... And Hell, Cas is terrified of the mere _idea_ of sex.

But then the angel shifts against him and Dean freezes when he feels contrary evidence of the existence of the angel's sexuality brush against his stomach. And then he realizes that he's not so innocent in that respect himself. Goddammit.

And it _really_ doesn't help when Cas shifts again and his thigh _friggin' rubs against something_.

_Oh God. Betty White in a bikini. Betty White in a bikini-_

Fuck, it isn't working. There go _more_ issues to never explore.

Yeah, it's definitely time to get out of Dodge.

He carefully slides his hands out from under the angel's waist and puts years of experience in ninjaing away from one-night stands to use in extracting himself from the angel's arms.

And then he runs into a problem.

Something soft is firmly wrapped around his back, holding him to the other man's body. He cranes his head around and freezes, staring in disbelief.

It's a _wing_.

Not just a shadow, but a full-blown, honest-to-God, every-time-a-bell-rings _wing_.

 _Cas's_ wing.

And he can see it.

Just... _holy shit_.

It's folded carefully around his body, bending and disappearing behind Cas's shoulder. And it's... luminescent. There are clearly feathers covering it, soft and sleek, but he can't really tell what color they are; they shimmer in the low light of the living room, constantly shifting and changing in hue. Mother of pearl is the closest he can come to describing it.

He turns his head and sure enough, another wing, mirroring its mate, is situated over him on the other side.

They're strange.

They're freaky.

They're fucking _awesome_.

Dean reaches up to touch one of the feathery appendages on impulse; it's unbelievably soft and makes his finger tips tingle. He follows the grain of the feathers for a few inches before drawing his hand back abruptly when the angel's breath hitches. He glances back up at Cas, worried he's been caught, but the angel's breathing has already returned to the slow, deep tempo of sleep.

...Did he do that?

Curiosity peaked, he reaches out again, brushing his hand lightly against a ridge of feathers. And Cas makes a noise that Dean didn't even know he could make. It has him swallowing hard as the angel reaches for him unconsciously.

And he realizes that it has another affect on the angel too, when he feels that 'evidence' from earlier press against his abdomen more... prominently. Which is doing weird things for his own situation. Which is all kinds of awkward and confusing.

So yeah, time to go. He's probably pushing his luck now anyway.

Dean, very, very careful not to touch the wings any more than necessary, extracts himself from the tangle of limbs, supernatural or otherwise. Unfortunately, this means sliding out from under them. Which involves more body contact. And with his luck, Cas is going to wake up while he's straddling him.

But he miraculously doesn't. For a guy who doesn't normally need shuteye, Cas is apparently a hell of a deep sleeper.

Dean finally stands and stares at the sleeping form on the couch. A slight frown mars the angel's face, no doubt unconsciously aware of the missing Dean-shaped object. He shifts onto his stomach then. And Dean watches, mesmerized, as his wings _pass right through the couch like friggin' holograms_ or something, before compacting onto his back like a blanket.

And that's when Dean notices something.

The back of Cas's left wing is riddled with black streaks; large sections of the iridescent plumage are missing or _singed_. The 'skin' underneath, which seems to have originally been the same 'color' as the feathers themselves, looks red and raw and seared. The worst of the damage seems to be near the base, where it _phases_ through his t-shirt.

And suddenly it makes sense: Gabriel's anger at the lab, Cas favoring his shoulder, the wincing...

Son of a bitch.

The shock and awe of his new sight are completely eaten away by disgusted anger. His stomach churns; he feels bile beginning to rise. The thought of Meg getting her filthy, demonic hands anywhere near Cas had been nauseating enough before. Now it's fucking _repulsive_ , _vulgar_.

If merely _touching_ them had elated such a strong response, what would _burning_ them do?

The next time he sees that bitch, she's fucking dead. Crowley too.

Dean draws back from the couch when he hears a curse from upstairs and the pounding of feet.  
"-Goddamn _monkey_. Can't leave him unsupervised even while... he's..." Gabriel freezes on the stairs, catching sight of him through the doorway. He stares for a moment, then blinks, relief washing over his face. The archangel clears his throat and straightens. "Dean-o. There you are."

Dean knows he should probably respond, but he just stares, distracted by the large, shining wings curled against the archangel's body. They're similar to Cas's, though maybe larger, threads of color weaving through them, constantly shifting and changing. They're beautiful too, but they don't fill him with the same... awe... as Cas's... Maybe it's because he saw the dark-haired angel's first...

Or maybe it's something else...

"Alright there, Dean?" Gabriel asks, suspicion in his eyes as he walks into the room. Dean mentally shakes himself and clenches his jaw.

He's so fucking sick of getting asked that.

Which is probably what fuels the decision to forgo mentioning that he's seeing in Angel-D. It's pretty clear that Gabriel has no idea what's been going on down here anyway. Not that there's been anything actually _going on_. On purpose. Dammit.

" _Peachy_ ," Dean snaps, unable to contain his agitation.

Gabriel's eyebrows fly up. "Geez, who pissed in your Cheerios?" He leans against the door jam and nods his head in his brother's direction. "Keep it down. Lil' bro needs his beauty sleep and the whammy I put on him might start wearing off soon."

Well that explains a lot. "You _mojo-roofied_ him?" Dean tries to sound angry on Cas's behalf, but he might be just a little bit grateful.

Gabriel shrugs and Dean tries not to stare at his wings as they rise and fall with the action; it's not easy. "Executive decision. He was gonna go back up there and sleep on the damn floor," he says irately, narrowing his eyes at Dean like it's _his_ fault. It probably is, actually...

Dean glances down at the angel on the couch and notices that his shirt has ridden up. He can make out traces of yellowed bruising still lining Cas's waist through the gap between his wings. "Why didn't he just-" Dean snaps his mouth shut, tries to stop the question, realizes that he should be dismayed by the idea, _had_ been just a few minutes ago. But when he looks back up at Gabriel, he knows the damage is done.

"Climb into bed with you?" the archangel finishes, all traces of irritation evaporating as his mouth curls into a damn smirk and his eyes glint with mischief. "He didn't wanna... how did he put it... _make you unduly uncomfortable_. Guess I can tell him he was worried for nothing."

Dean gives him his best _the hell you will_ glare, but it doesn't even seem to faze the bastard. "What're you still doing here, anyway?" he demands, aiming to change the subject. Because, dammit, he knows he's not going to win that one.

The angel blinks; his smirk falters and his eyes dart to the side. "I was checking on..." He pauses and looks over his shoulder, then at Cas, then back at Dean. And Dean wondering if he can see _through_ his own wings. Because that would be a hell of a blind spot. "... the wards. Cassie and I changed them earlier, he's off house arrest."

Dean stares at him, and then finally, with nothing else to stop him, he asks, "Yeah, about that... Why'd you put him on lock-down?"

Gabriel glances down at his sleeping brother again, the humor completely slipping from his face. "My sigil recipe isn't perfect, never had to worry about finding _myself_ down here. Wanted him where I could find him while I made sure no one caught his little blip on the radar."

"Because your bros won't be breaking out the streamers and party hats for him."

"Not exactly, no." The archangel sighs, his wings twitch outward before resettling against his back. "Lil' bro broke just about ever rule in the book," he says, then with a grimace adds, "Then set it on fire."

And that's just what Dean has been worried about. "You're the big kahuna though. Can't you like, give him a get out of jail free card?"

"Oh, I'm in charge," Gabriel says with a sudden sneer, though it isn't directed at Dean. "But I'm not absolute." 

That catches Dean's attention; he remembers Gabriel mentioning problems upstairs, but he hadn't considered that maybe the archangel had opposition. The way the brunette angel had talked about it a few days ago, Dean had figured that his biggest headache would have been cupids running amok or some shit like that. What was left up there that could butt heads with an archangel anyway? He doesn't know if he wants to know. "The hell you talking about?" he asks cautiously.

"The council has a lot of pull now. And they don't wanna just sit on the sidelines anymore." There's venom in Gabriel's voice as he explains.

And this is the first Dean has _ever_ heard of anything like that. "Council? We talking Mace Windu and Master Yoda here? That kind of council?"

Gabriel shifts his weight and leans more heavily on the jam. "Kinda. Virtues. There's seven of 'em. And they're just a step below archangels on the celestial Richter scale," he elaborates, still looking like he's got a bad taste in his mouth.

"And _why_ am I just hearing about this _now_?" Dean asks slowly. Because this sounds like something that should have come up before. Though in all honesty, they've never really had much insight into the workings of Heaven. Or even bothered to ask about it beyond what was necessary to not get smote.

"Because they've been outta commission for a _long_ time. After Dad left..." The archangel goes quiet, sliding his eyes towards his little brother's sleeping form. He stands there for a moment before he lets out a small, short burst of sound that Dean doesn't really consider a laugh. When Gabriel speaks again, his voice sounds a little raspy. "Well, things went screwy. Michael started pushing his weight around. And with Raphael backing him up, no one wanted to cross him. The business-types have been calling the shots ever since. The council's supposed to uphold the laws of Heaven, judge and jury. But like I said, it's been a long time."

And Dean's anger surges to the surface again. He has a feeling he knows where this is going. "And Cas...?"

The archangel looks back up at him, a dark emotion shining in his eyes. "They'd book him, Dean-o," he states.

Dean clenches his fists at his sides and feels himself start to shake. He looks down at Cas, laying there bruised and burned, and cannot fucking believe that some dickhole angels that have been in- in fucking _retirement_ \- for who the fuck _knows_ how long, somehow think they have the right to pass _judgment_ over _Cas_. "That's _bullshit_ ," he hisses, lashing out at the archangel verbally. He jabs his finger in Cas's direction. "You're telling me you're just gonna sit there with your thumb up your ass and let that happen?"

Gabriel pushes away from the door jam, a matching mask of anger slamming down over his features. His wings arch high on his back and the already-dim living room lights flicker. "You think I _want_ to hand him over?" he accuses in a harsh whisper, stabbing a finger in Cas's direction. "I don't know if you've noticed, but there's only _one of me_. And I _can't_..." Dean's own fury falters as the archangel's voice cracks. Gabriel stares at him, eyes wide and wild and nostrils flared. His mouth screws up into a tight line and he exhales loudly. When he speaks again his voice is deathly calm and terrifying.

"He's the only one of us that had the _balls_ to stand up to our dick older brothers and say _no_. He's the only one that was _brave_ enough. He didn't deserve the position he was forced into by the _cowards_ up there that were just going to let Raphael do whatever the fuck he wanted. I would _die_ for him." The archangel steps forward and jabs a finger into Dean's chest, hard. "I _have_ died for _you_ ," he reminds him, tilting his head to the side as he glares up him. "So _maybe_ you should _think_ before you speak."

Dean deflates completely. "I..." he begins, but doesn't really know what to say. Gabriel glares at him for a moment longer, then steps back.

"I can't..." he repeats, anger warping into a new bout bitterness. He looks back at his brother again and jerks his chin in his direction. "If I even _tried_ to give him a Mulligan, they'd use that as their excuse to try to can me. I'm on shaky ground as it is, wasn't exactly greeted with open arms myself." He crosses his arms over his chest and rolls his shoulders. "And I'm not looking to start any more damn civil wars... there's been enough death in the family."

Dean's gaze drifts back down to Cas and his mouth goes dry. "So where does that leave him?" he asks quietly.

Gabriel is silent as he looks off to the side, a mournful expression flickering across his face. Dean's gut clenches as he understands what the archangel doesn't want to admit. "He can't go back," he realizes aloud.

"No..." Gabriel says with a small, slow shake of his head. "Not with the way things are now."

"That's a _fuckload_ of-"

"Oh, it is," the archangel assures him. "It's all bullshit, and I'm stuck shoveling it." Gabriel reaches up and rubs at his forehead, then draws his hand down his face. And just for an instant, he looks really... tired, exhausted even. "This... is the best I can offer right now," he murmurs quietly, still not meeting Dean's eye.

And Dean realizes that Gabriel is in a difficult position, stuck in the middle of the same old fucked up power-struggle Daddy-issue family feud that he'd _left_ because of. Dean doesn't doubt that the archangel cares about Cas, about his brother; he's proved that much. But he also knows that Gabriel doesn't want to see what's left of his family torn to shreds. Because family is important to Gabriel, and he's doing what he can to keep it together.

And Dean understands the role of a peacekeeper only too well.

Dean inhales deeply and holds his breath for a couple seconds before exhaling in a rush. "So... the Justice League running the show would be a bad thing," Dean ventures, trying change the subject.

Gabriel looks up sharply and works his jaw back and forth on its hinges, then says, "Some of them weren't exactly happy with their severance packages."

It seems to have worked, the tension in the room begins to ebb. "Sounds like you guys need to fire your Angel Resources manager," the hunter suggests.

The angel snorts and nods. "After the civil war smoke cleared, Remiel swooped in. I think he'd been waiting that whole time, hoping Raphael and Cas would smite each other out of the picture." Gabriel settles on the arm of the couch and crosses his arms.

"Which is pretty much what happened," Dean inputs with a wince. He backs up a few paces and sits in the armchair behind him. "And this guy's a virtue? Because he sounds like just as big a dick as the rest."

Gabriel snorts again and looks down at his sneakers. "Chief Virtue. Temperance."

"Ah, so there's a stick involved too," the elder Winchester concludes.

The archangel shakes his head as a breathy chuckle vibrates through his shoulders, extending all the way out to his wingtips. Dean is impressed with how expressive the downy limbs are.

Gabriel looks down at his sneakers again, knocking them together as he purses his lips in thought. "When lil' bro went all Dr. Manhattan, he took out a lot of Raphael's key followers," he begins quietly, reaching up to rub the back of his neck. Then he sighs and drops his arms to his lap and looks up at Dean. "They were the most... vocal. With them gone it made it even easier for the slimy bastard to gunked up the power vacuum. Managed to gain a lot of support."

Dean nods thoughtfully, his eyes drifting over to Cas again. "So what's Veidt's endgame then?" Gabriel shifts and looks down at the dark-haired figure as well.

"Dunno, that's what has us worried." His wings flourish outward, then fall to rest once more against his back. "Remiel isn't a member of the humanity fan club; we're pretty sure whatever he wants, it isn't 'more of the same'," he says. "Pops must not like it anyway, or I wouldn't be here," he adds.

"Great. Angels and demons and snakes," Dean mutters.

"Oh my," Gabriel agrees. He stands and brushes invisible dirty of his jeans. "Anyway, the plan is for Cassie to lay low until we find a loophole."

There's a pause. Dean looks back down at Cas, before wondering aloud, "Is it gonna be like before?"

The archangel cocks his head. "You mean when he was kicked out?"

"Yeah."

"No. He's got a mojo connection, but... it's like he's on dial-up," the brunette angel says. "Shitty download speeds. Lag. The works. He'll have limitations."

"But he'll heal? Completely?" Dean asks hopefully. Because the thought of _that_ being permanent...

"Yeah... But it'll take a while..." The archangel's eyes narrow. His wings spread out; they look _gigantic_ at full wingspan, they just about fill the room. It seems like he's about to vamoose.

"Hey..." Dean says quickly. Because this time, dammit, he's going to ask sooner rather than later. "Is there... anything, you know, that we can do?"

The former trickster gives him a critical once over. "Yeah..." Gabriel says thoughtfully, a smirk slowly spreading over his face. "Try not to make him do something stupid to save your ass. Again." And with that, he's gone.

Dean stands there quietly for a moment before taking one last look at the sleeping angel on the couch and storming through the dark kitchen, intent on getting some fresh air.

He pops the lock on the sliding glass door, which is now covered in sigils too, pushes it open and steps through. There's a strange sensation, like walking through an invisible wall of cobwebs; it makes him stumble, but it's gone before he even has a chance to really react. He looks back at the door, perplexed.

Was that...?

He cautiously reaches up and sticks his hand through the door. Sure enough, he feels it again; the air over the threshold feels... thick and makes his skin itch. He pulls his hand back and silently slides the door shut.

Well, fuck. That's new.

It's still dark outside, the first rays of dawn just starting to peek out over the tree tops. He hears a bird cry out as he makes his way across the lawn to the rickety-looking dock at the edge of the lake. The structure wiggles ominously under his weight, but he continues anyway, walking to the edge and mimicking his position from his dream.

The chill of South Dakota fall settles over him as he looks out over the still, black waters. He takes a deep breath, letting the bite of the cold air clear his head.

As light bleeds from the horizon, Dean lets his mind wander.

He doesn't know what's happening to him, _no one_ knows. And it's scary as fuck... Sure, their world isn't as black and white as it used to be. The line isn't human or not, good or bad anymore; they've met a few supernatural beings along the way that weren't evil. But that doesn't make him feel any better. Because, dammit, he's always been _human_ and he doesn't know how to be anything else, doesn't _want_ to be.

And then there's Cas.

He certainly hadn't thought Cas would get a welcome home parade or anything, but he'd thought that with Gabriel calling the shots, he'd at least be allowed to set foot in the house without getting _mobbed_. And yet... Dean realizes that he's almost _relieved_ that Cas can't go back, because it means he'll probably stay with them. In that year that he'd spent in Cicero... he'd missed the angel terribly. And Sam, of course; God, he'd missed Sam. But he'd _known_ Sam wasn't coming back, couldn't. And Cas was still alive, he just wasn't there. (Though Dean knows that was probably as much his fault as the angel's, he could have reached out too.) The idea of going back to that, or the way things were in that awful year of stressed, disjointed visits makes something twist sharply in his chest, makes him secretly _glad_ that things are they way they are.

_What kind of selfish bastard are you?_

Goddammit, what's wrong with him?

And he decides then and there that he's not going to mention his weird dreams, or his Kotex-vision, or any other _benign_ weird shit that happens, because Cas and his brother _both_ have their own shit to deal with. And they don't need his piled on. And yeah, he's probably being a big fat hypocrite by not telling them, but _dammit_ , he's not some little girl and he doesn't want to be treated like one, doesn't want them to keep looking at him like they did yesterday.

He stays out there, watching as the sky fills with sunlight and the rest of the world wakes up.

When he hears Jody call his name from the house, he stiffly moves to get up, cursing as his hand catches on a loose nail. He looks down at his palm irately, watching blood pool quickly its curve, weeping from the small tear of skin. He flicks his hand in annoyance, following the shower of red droplets with his eyes as they fly through the air and skip across the surface of the water.

Then he fists his hand to stanch the bleeding and marches back up to the house. The door is already open and he resolutely marches through, momentum pushing him through the wards with ease.

The strong, bitter smell of coffee hits him as he enters the house. He notices Sam at the table, doing something obscene to a bowl of cereal. Bobby sits across from him with a newspaper and a steaming mug; he glances up ever few moments and pulls faces at the younger Winchester's eating display. Jody stands at the counter, pouring her own cup of joe. Dean stomps across the room, swipes a paper towel from the the roll on the counter, and presses it to his hand.

"Should be careful out there. Been a bunch of pet disappearances lately. Think there's a mountain lion or bear coming down from the mountains looking for food," Jody tells him as she butters a piece of toast.

"I'm not a damn puppy," he scoffs, then hisses as the paper sticks to his skin when he pulls it back to check on his cut.

The red-head looks like she has something else to say about that, but then she eyes his hand and asks, "What happened?"

"Stupid-"

Before he can explain, there's a blur of movement and a vice-like grip on his shoulders and Cas is there, _inches from his face_.

" _Dude_!" Dean exclaims loudly, totally about to tear into him, because _what the fuck_.

But then he notices that something isn't right.

The angel's pupils are fully dilated, black almost completely swallowing the irises. His nostrils are flared and his jaw is clenched so hard that Dean can actually see the muscles shaking. Dean's eyes dart out to his wings before snapping back to his face; the lambent limbs are flared wide and high, feathers puffed out and ruffled.

He looks fucking _feral_.

_We run the show now._

Dean sucks in a sharp, startled breath.

And that seems to snap Cas out of it.

His shoulders slump as he wings curl into his body and he shakes his head and blinks hard. The angel looks up at Dean, bewilderment etched on his face. His eyes drift down then, zeroing in on Dean's injured hand. "What happened?" he asks, his voice comes out groggy and hoarse.

Dean clears his throat and swallows. "Dude, it's just a scratch," he assures him. But he's not entirely sure Cas is just talking about the cut.

"I..." the angel begins. He looks up again, eyes darting to Dean's shoulders. He takes a deep breath, gaze flicking back down to Dean's hand once more, before he abruptly lets go and stalks out of the room without any sort of explanation.

Dean stares after him and starts when he hears a door slam a few seconds later.

"You all right?" He sees Bobby standing in his peripheral vision, chair pushed away from the table, poised to act. Jody stands on the opposite side of the room, posture mirroring the old hunter's.

"Fine," Dean answers distractedly. He stares after the angel for a moment longer, then turns to look at the older man. "The fuck was _that_?"

"No clue," Sam comments unhelpfully from around a mouthful of what looks like Captain Crunch. He seems completely unworried and apparently hasn't even bothered to look up.

Dean stares at his brother for a moment, then glances at Bobby in askance. The old hunter offers him a silent shrug.

"Hope that shit cuts your mouth," the elder Winchester grumbles as he goes to the sink. Turning on the faucet, he runs his hand under warm water, washing out the cut, and mentally confirms that he'd gotten a tetanus shot three months ago, so he's covered there. He turns around and leans against the counter as he dries his hands.

"He was dead to the world on the couch 'til you came in," Bobby informs him, glancing warily in the direction of the living room as he sits back down.

"Maybe he's just not a morning person?" Jody suggests cautiously, glancing at the living room as well.

Sam snorts with laughter and Bobby gives him a dubious look before returning to his newspaper. Dean mulls over the idea; the dude isn't used to sleeping and therefore isn't used to waking up. Maybe he'd just been disoriented? Possibly, he'd definitely been out of it... Or maybe it was some weird angel-on-angel mojo hangover?

Speaking of...

Dean notices he can still feel faint traces of the archangel's grace- or whatever the fuck it is he's sensing. "Gabriel here?" he asks with a slight frown.

There's a _clank_ of metal on ceramic as Sam drops his spoon, splashing a little milk on the table. His eyebrows shoot up as he looks at Dean with wide eyes. "No, why?" he asks a little too quickly for the elder Winchester's liking.

"Because-" Dean starts, then cuts himself off. He pushes away from the counter and approaches the table, bowing his head slightly and raising an eyebrow at his brother. "Dude, are you okay?"

Sam blinks at him. "Me? I'm great," he says and _smiles_.

Dean doesn't believe it.

Apparently neither does Bobby. "Yeah, great like the Grateful Dead show at Woodstock," the old hunter comments from over his newspaper.

"I'm just... in a good mood," Sam insists with a shrug and returns his focus to his breakfast.

Dean scowls and busies himself with examining his hand, deliberating whether or not it needs a stitch or two. He's surprised to find that it's already stopped bleeding; there's a gross little flap of loose skin, but it looks pretty superficial beyond that.

The sliding glass door opens behind him and Dean turns to find Cas stepping through it. He looks a lot less... frazzled now. His expression is blank as he glances at Dean, then seats himself at the far end of the table all causal-like, like none of that had just happened.

But Dean can't just leave it at that. "The hell'd you go?" he demands.

Cas's wings quiver at the question, but his expression remains flat. "Out," is his clipped, gruff response.  
Fucking angels.

Dean is about to point out that _yes, he noticed that_ when a cellphone rings.

Bobby startles and fishes his phone out of his front pocket, looks at the caller ID, and rolls his eyes.

"Singer," he says, holding the phone to his ear. After a second his eyebrows shoot up in surprise, drawing Dean's attention. "Who's this?"

In the silence that follows, the old hunter's eyebrows fall into a furrow and his mouth twists into an expression of incredulity. "The hell you want me to say that for? Listen, lady-" But the person on the other side cuts him off.

Bobby's eyebrows shoot back up and he glances at Sam. "Listen, _Becky_ ," he says tightly. The younger Winchester's head snaps up and his eyes go wide in disbelief. "I dunno how you got that phone-"

There's a longer period of silence; Bobby's face filters through a lot of different expressions: confusion, disbelief, anger, concern, and then finally settles on uncertainty. "...Strange? Have you _met_ the boy? Strange is his default setting," he informs the stalker. "Put him on the phone."

Dean can hear her voice rise on the other side of the line. Bobby clenches his jaw. "...Alright, _alright_ ," the old hunter concedes with irritation. "We can look into it."

Another beat of silence, another glance at Sam; "Yes, he's here."

Sam starts shaking his head emphatically and brings his hands up to ward the phone away.

Bobby gives him a hard look that Dean thinks might actually secretly be amusement before saying, " _No_ , you can't talk to him. This ain't Dream Phone. I'll check back in a bit." He pauses. "And _keep an eye on him_ ," he adds before hanging up.

"How'd she get your number?" Dean asks the older man, shooting an accusatory look at his brother. Who knows what he'd given her while he was hopped up on love potion. Oh God, bad thoughts, bad thoughts.

And Dean contemplates beating himself unconscious against the table as Sam shakes his head vigorously and waves his hands again. "Dude, wasn't me."

Bobby sighs and adjusts his cap. "That was Garth's phone. Apparently she's been huntin' with the loon."

Dean blinks, then opens his mouth, then closes it, then blinks again and shakes his head slowly."Well that's..." He pauses, running all kinds of terrible scenarios through his head. "...An accident waiting to happen."

"Already has," the old hunter says, reaching up a hand to rub at his temple.

Sam sits up straighter. "They okay?" he asks, his eyebrows furrow and some of the pep-in-his-step or whatever the fuck it was from earlier fades.

Bobby sighs again and pushes back his chair. "It's Garth. Girl said he's actin' squirrelly."

"Because this is new," Dean says sarcastically, shifting on his feet and crossing his arms.

"Yeah, I hear ya," Bobby agrees. "But that ain't the half of it. Apparently, they caught wind of somethin' goin' down in New Jersey. Somethin' 'bout a... _human burrito_." The older man's nose wrinkles in disgust.

"And she was hoping for back up."

Bobby nods and frowns. "Yeah. Can't hurt to scope it out on the net at least. Don't want 'em gettin' themselves killed. Need more dead fools on my hands like I need a hole in the head. If it's anythin', Sam and I can go-"

"Oh no, you're _not_ leaving me at home with the babysitter." Dean jabs his finger in the silent angel's direction. Cas's eyes slide in his direction and he huffs indignantly. Dean has a hard time not getting distracted by the way his wings fidget.

"This ain't up for discussion, boy," Bobby states, drawing his addition. The old hunter stands and folds his arms in a show of authority. "You still got monster mama cells playin' legos with your DNA."

"All the more reason to keep eyes on me," Dean points out logically. "Besides, then you'll get Smitey here." Dean nods in Cas's direction and is a little impressed when the angel rolls his eyes. "And you _know_ what he can do to things that go bump in the night."

Bobby narrows his eyes, gaze shifting between the elder Winchester and the angel. He takes a deep breath and slumps his shoulders.

"Balls."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that went from "Awww!" to "WTF WHY?" in 6000 words. I don't think there's even a name for what just happened. Let's... Let's not name it, because if we do then we'll be compelled to keep it around... and maybe like it... (And "Garky" sounds kinda gross.) (And it won't be staying long.) I got to thinking that maybe Becky'd gotten a taste for hunting when she'd stabbed that demon in 7x08. I mean, she does know a lot about it already from the books. Doesn't mean she's good at it though. I dunno.
> 
> Zomg plot advancement! Got a peek into what's been going on in Heaven, there'll be more on that later. In the immediate future, I'm going to borrow some from 7x09, but it'll go back to more original stuff soon. As you can see, I'm already going in a different direction with it.
> 
> In other news, new mental picture: Cas as Dr. Manhattan... blue and bald and... yeah... Which reminds me of a photo Misha posted on twitter last year. I don't even have a twitter account, I just check his periodically because my love for that man is 0.94 David Bowies. ( 1.0 David Bowie being the highest known quantifiable measurement of Aeri-love.)


End file.
